02/23/2024: Bootlickers Anonymous Meeting Rescheduled to Next Wednesday

Every time I go inside a business school I ask myself, “Jeezus, Maeby, what the hell are we doing? These biz kids are made men!” I say it just like that, then I take a drag of my cigar, and snap into the dark of an alley in the night. It forces me to question all my life choices. We’re all neocities users. We’re known to be the socialist types. But my eye has a tendency to stray and my heart a streak of envy, and you really have to wonder...

"Would my life be better if I was a sellout?"

The answer is, veritably, yes, of course it would be. Idiot. Anyone that says money doesn’t solve all your problems is wrong. Anyone that says money won’t make you happy is fucking stupid. Money would make me so happy, because money could be used to buy the security and stability everyone in my generation seeks. Concerts make me happy. Manicures fill me with joy. Give me a $20 cocktail and a big juicy steak and I’ll be over the moon. The great juxtaposition between the virgin Law School and the Chad Business School is only the example most immediate to me, but know that this world contains multitudes.

I’ve been in the business school because of an arbitration conference, and without fail, every business school stuns. They’re all so soulless, clean, and glorious. They all have big, open, concept, glassed-in study rooms in weird places. They all have impressionist art nobody looks at as they walk through the halls. They all have Starbucks (and not one of those students are boycotting.) Law schools, in comparison, were all renovated in the 90s. You can tell. I’ve been in a few nicer ones, UVA and Baylor on that notable list, but by and large it’s the American High School, lockers and all.

I don’t know why I want to be in the business school. Millennial beige makes my soul sad and I would rather put a bullet between both eyes than drink a Grande Shaken Espresso. Yet I am known to, on occasion, yearn for something that I am not. Is it so wrong to fantasize? I think there is something fundamentally hungry within me, someone who will never be satisfied. So restless in my existence am I that I daydream equally about being a musician as I do an MBA.

I once described an old college friend of mine as a “bisexual anarcho-capitalist who bases her prices off of the free market of how much money is in your fucking wallet.” I should take a page out of her book. She, unlike I, has a job. She went to work for the military industry complex because she knows what she wants. Morality? No. Life insurance for her and her children? Absolutely. I can’t even hate it. Live Laugh Lockheed Martin.

…I don’t mean all of that. Really, I don’t. I have more morals than a coffee shop in your academic building so you don’t have to go across the street for a drink. Can a guy not complain? Can a guy not acknowledge that the immediacy of a coffee shop (not Starbucks) would be nice?

Suggestions to all law schools! Do some renovations! Be better! I care not for the self-serve coffee or ice cream socials. I care only for facilities that do not make die to be within. That one fish on SpongeBob said it best: Food. Water. Atmosphere.