books and sweaters.

I'm twenty-four years old and am about to restart school.

I know I vowed never to set foot back in that place, and to an extent, I won't. I'm going to a new school where I will meet new people and see new things and have new experiences. I will get to live the life that I've wanted since I walked across the stage in 2007.

I'm a little scared, but so many opportunities await. The trip to Spain that I never got to take. The internship in a cool city working with native speakers. Bumming around a college campus, studying until the wee hours, drinking coffee, laughing with new friends, wearing sweatpants because that's normal again, going to the rec, and complaining about relatively insignificant things. I can't wait. Bring on the stress as long as the good times come with it.

beyond the textbook.

"I'm just gonna get a real attorney."

I hear this, day in and day out, about my services and the way that people regard me as a professional. It is demeaning every day, and can even be devastating.

I spent three of the hardest years of my life trying to learn how to be a lawyer, trying to understand something that was much harder and larger than I was. I stuffed civil procedure, criminal law, contract law, evidence, and basic trial prep skills into my brain until I literally cried myself to sleep some nights.

True, there are many days--even a majority of them--that I dread going to work, dealing with people's anger, prejudices, and illusions. The reactions of people when I must break the bad news that they are, in fact, going back to jail, are overwhelming. The thought that I am the only thing between them and jail or, in some instances, prison is too much to bear in dealing with the clients with whom I connect.

In the words of Aretha Franklin, R-E-S-P-E-C-T... find out what it means to me. If you don't, your last line of defense may abandon you like the rest of society...

A new adventure

Apparently, I don't make impressions. Or, if I do, they are not the lifelong kind that cause people to think they are truly losing something valuable. I had my last day in Judge _____ court today. I've been there nearly a year, and the judge gave me a hug, but there was no celebration of the sort that the other public defenders often get upon leaving a courtroom. No cake, no gift cards, no farewell party. The other court staff did not even react to it, saying only that I wouldn't be going that far. In distance, perhaps they're right. In emotion, it is unlikely that I will ever return.

Pounding the pavement...

I'm sitting in one of two good suits for the third time in less than a week. It's been madness finding time to go on all of these interviews without making my current work suspicious. Nonetheless, I feel like one of them went very well and am optimistic about today's. It's a pre-interview in a real city for the job itself, which is also in a real city.

Driving all over the state of Ohio for the past few weeks has shown me that I do need a change of pace and scenery. There are many places that I would not want to end up, but there are far more where I would be happy to start over.

This interview is for a job that would pay better than any other I've ever had. I need this job to secure my financial future and to give me some new and different experience.

But I have on my good suit, so nothing can really go wrong.

and every day is the worst day ever...

Four walls. Two windows. One door. No desire to be here. I look forward to felony court every six weeks. The docket is light. Nearly everyone pleads. There is no possibility of a trial. I don't have to be at work until 10, versus 8 a.m. It should be a nice week for me every time I'm down here, but this week, it feels monotonous and dull. There are so few clients, it's hardly worth showing up for. I just feel like this was a waste of a suit and makeup...

We've been talking for over three months and official for over a month and a half. Though that is not a very long time, we have spent hours upon hours together, and I have been to your parents' home on too many occasions to count.

Last night, I was distraught, tired and ill. You wanted me to stay; I protested, saying that it disrespected your family, that it would be weird. You said, it's only weird if you make it weird. Then your mother explained in no uncertain terms that I needed to leave.

I wonder, sometimes. Is my forehead branded with "Don't Trust Me?" The scarlett letter? What is my problem? I have a longstanding history with my exes' dads. One called me Jezabel for three years; another refused to acknowledge my existence and would simply not speak to or look at me; yet another told me to expect "no charity" from his family because I had "stolen" his son's virginity.

Until now, I have never had a problem with a mother. I understand that I crossed a line--I should not have asked to stay in her home this early in my relationship with her son. Nonetheless, I don't understand why it was such a problem to ask to spend one night there. I brought you your favorite cookies. I always take time to talk to you when I certainly have no obligation to do so. I know that he has brought other women there of less consequence and they have been allowed to spend the night without question. I don't feel like I'm just a random girl; I am becoming a lasting part of his life. I have gone out of my way to show kindness and respect, and you threw me out of your house with no reason whatsoever. Calling me Jezabel is far less insulting.

d i s t a n c e .

It's terribly depressing that, as we sit together on the sofa, I can actually feel us growing apart.

You aren't listening as you used to. You aren't doting as you once did. You are on the other side of the sofa, texting, talking to someone else, playing a video game, and doing anything else necessary to completely ignore me.

Excuses are unnecessary. As similar as we are, the feeling has changed. You routinely outwear your welcome and do not take hints. As much as I want to spend time with you, you need to leave long enough for me to miss you before I will actually wish we were together again. You've crowded in so close, you've made us distant. Please, back off.

aren't you just special?

Why do we feel the need to hurt one another when we break up?

So we dated for about three months. It wasn't always great, but it was never bad. Your actions showed ambivalence from the beginning; making excuses not to see me during the time when two people always want to see one another. I, on the other hand, would drop everything to go see you whenever you asked. I guess this should have revealed to me that we were not destined for greatness, but I thought we were happy.

After telling me that I am boring and do only three things--drink, work, and go to the gym--you also feel the need to tell me that you don't have and never have had romantic feelings for me.

Now, for the record, you were a rebound from the start. Our "relationship" was never practical. But I guess that, somewhere along the way, I actually started to like you and you retreated, terrified of potentially connecting with someone.

Well, back into the stream you go, on to run away from other perfectly acceptable women. I don't have time for your drama in my life, anyway.

Foreign.

Waking up on a stranger's couch at 3:50am is not the best way to start

vacuum.

Children.

I have never had any desire to have them. Ever. I view having children as the end of one's life. Once you have them, there are no more late nights. Your body droops and sags, your hormones run rampant, and you become undesirable to most men without kids of their own. Plus, in addition to needy people everywhere else in life--clients, parents, friends, siblings--you are now fully responsible for creating and releasing your very own human being into society.

But now I'm at the age where a "party" isn't an all-night bar crawl. It's sitting around a friend's living room because she can't afford a sitter--and since her child is there, all her other friends are welcome to bring their own. So there I am-- Holly in a room of mothers, all of whom are asking me if I have a boyfriend and when I'm going to have one of my own. If I say I don't want to, they insist that I will change my mind. I guarantee that I will not.

Am I less of a woman for this, I wonder? They wipe spit-up and baby poo off themselves like it's lint. They don't flinch when their child screams. They have entirely civil conversations with peers and then break out an angry disciplinary voice. Is that who I'll be? I have to be honest: I really hope not.