You enter law school. You don’t know how you did it, but do it you did. Your NLUD entrance score doesn’t match up with your CLAT score and you wonder how you got in in the first place. Combined with your Class 12 marks, your evaluation of yourself as a student raises more questions than it tried to initially answer. You reason with it the way you always do and try to accommodate this along with the million other pieces of information you’ve gathered over the years about how the world is claimed to work. Or avoid work.
You make your way in and your mind is still on the past, still self-obsessed, still a precocious little foetus waiting to ripped out from the seething guts of a putrid self-satisfaction that only a socially approved success can bring. It lasts, for a little while. The descent is slow, but sure. The first five months – what are they exactly? They’re like the first few minutes at a party you’re convinced into attending where you only expect a few familiar faces, and instead you find the inevitable surprise of the lack of a single soul you’d be at ease with. At the end of them is a disappointment that you still haven’t realized, from something or another. Disappointment from grades. Disappointment from friends. Disappointment from relationships. Disappointment from family. From health. You take your pick. It’ll be there. But remember, it’s your friend. This is just the kick up the arsehole that you needed to point out to you that all is not as well as can be. For, being the lollipop-sucking unprioritized toddler that you are, you’ve had your head stuck up in a cloud’s proverbial all along, hardly mustering up the goddamn modesty to take in something significant around you and actually engage or get involved with it.
What next. By now you’re well and truly embedded inside the ecosystem. This swamp is your home now. You’re a part of it. And some slimy disgusting part of it, can lay an equally authoritative claim on you, no doubt. And being the greasy amphibian that you now are, there aren’t many other places you’re going to go when you’re thirsty. So when you feel that thirst, when you need that slake, it’s just the same old pond scum that you’re going to rinse, gargle, and regurgitate, like so many of the pond before you. And it tastes just fine. Because everyone else is drinking it, aren’t they? Are they complaining about it? Do you see them contorting their faces in utter disgust at how much it reminds you of human shit? So what possible problem could you have? What is wrong with your taste-buds that they feels the need for such protest? You teach them a lesson by gulping down some more. Soon enough, like all exponents of vocal disobedience, they learn. They learn, and they cooperate. You begin to exploit the variations in the pond scum that you find in different areas of the glorified cesspool. You train yourself to become a connoisseur in the varied vintages of the pond, thus picking up a valuable tool to raise your standing in the Order of the Pond-infesting amphibians. You learn which types you can digest, and which one you can’t, which types you’re likely to find more friends tasting, and which ones you need a weekend recovery-period from. Once you’ve sorted these out, you’re much better equipped to deal with the machinations that you’re paying to collude with.
And that just gives you the tools to do the things you choose to. That was your education. You haven’t been tasked with any actual decisions up until this point. Till now you’ve just been learning. Now you gotta make some decisions, and you’re on your own. The tools help fuckall. Because they don’t help you take decisions, they just help you execute them. They don’t tell you which choice is better than which, which one has better odds of good results, which one is going to be crowded out by a majority of everyone else, or which ones you’d suck or be good at. But heck, what do you care?! You’re fucking omnipotent, remember?! Surely, if you’ve made it this far, it’s only because of your ability, those hitherto awesome skills that would make Stevie Wonder cover his eyes. Hell, your ideas should probably be used in the World Bank or something! What could you possibly get wrong here?
I’ll give you some credit. It doesn’t turn out as bad as I make it out to be. But you know as well as I do that it is in fact pretty fucking pathetic. I hope that makes you feel better. You haul another bag of loot to your private piss-pot of winnings and await the next big porno that’s offered to you to be a part of.