meet me at the bar
Here I am filling out my application for admission to the Bar of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts (also know as The Place With Too Many Damn Syllables, and soon to be the home of legal gay marriage). I'm glad I have all my old resumes knocking around on various hard drives, because damned if they don't want records of everywhere I've worked since I turned 18. That's eleven entries, in case you're playing along at home. It's too bad the resumes don't have full mailing addresses, because looking them up was harder than you'd think. I realize the safety concerns the drive many Jewish organizations to list only P.O. Boxes on their websites, but trust me when I say it doesn't make my life any easier. It was nothing a good memory and some reverse lookups on WhitePages.com couldn't fix though. I'm also sweating getting my two character references back from my recommenders in time. I'd like to file this thing before I leave for Israel this weekend, so that Julian isn't stuck putting together the last little bits and waiting at the post office on my behalf. After all this, I'm thinking the exam itself will be a piece of cake. Not carrot cake, though.
I've been told I have it easy, though. Apparently the New York application calls for a witnessed handwriting sample, a list of everywhere you have lived in the past some number of years, and three vials of blood. I'm kidding about the blood. I think.
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