Saturday, April 09, 2005

Attention to Detail

is something I need to work on, especially if I want to survive in the legal profession, where people make it their mission to be detail oriented.

Let me explain.

As I arrived at my favorite study spot today, Cute Undegrad Hangout (CUH), I noticed a conference going on in a large meeting room entitled "Looking Good to Live." Intrigued by the title, I tried to figure out who planned it, thinking it would be some fashion magazine like Vogue or Elle, or maybe a Queer Eye For the Straight Guy kind of thing. "Strange," I thought, that during finals there'd be a conference on this, but knowing how many unfortunate looking people there are, I thought it was a good thing.

Later, I stopped at the bathroom, where I heard a voice talking forcefully in the stall. As one who is always intrigued by the idea of public bathroom sex, I was intrigued and immediately listened closely. Attending Big Metroplitan University, this was a common practice, so much so that the school put up steel plates in between the bathroom stalls to prevent it from going on.

Taking care of my business in the bathroom, I heard another voice coming from the stall, this one the voice of a small child. It was followed by the attractive masculine voice saying, "Good. That was a great poop. Time to clean up." My failure to attend to the details made me misinterpret a father teaching his son how to defecate with some hot on-the-down-low frat-brother bathroom action.

Walking out of the bathroom, I passed the conference where I heard a woman say "We're glad that everyone here is interested in becoming a missionary." That seemed odd in light of the name of the conference, until I took a closer look at the sign and read it again. Instead of "Looking Good to Live," it was "Looking to God to Live." Failure to pay attention to the details got me again, this time confusing a fashion makeover workshop for a religious exercise. Oops.

Maybe this is something I should work on before the bluebooking competition in two weeks . . . .


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