forgive me, this is only my first attempt at life
One month at a law firm is turning me into what even three years in Bellingham could not, a metaphorical and sometimes literal hugger of trees. There’s just so much paper. We make three copies of everything and I haven’t quite figured out where these copies even go. I know that one goes to the file and one goes to the attorney and the other goes God only knows where, and might I add that God hates law firms. I’ve started trying to convince the paralegal that she doesn’t really want seven copies of that declaration. I do this by looking at her with my best C.E.E. (Christ Experience Expression) for 30 seconds and then asking, “What would Jesus do here Liz?” To which she usually responds with what I think is an attempt at a good C.E.E., but which looks more like an M.T.R.F. (Murder the Receptionist Face) and tells me that the copies should be on her desk in five minutes, and before she walks away she fixes me with what is definitely an M.T.R.F. and says, “On clean paper.” Apparently she’s noticed that I’ve been slipping in copies of discovery responses printed on the back of my favorite coffee stained sheets from the recycle bin or if the moment is right, a Sierra Club brochure.