An Open Letter to My Evidence Professor:

It has been well over 24 hours since I took your final - which, by the way, would be more appropriately termed "mental rape" - and I am still dumbfounded and speechless.

All I can muster is: Just what, exactly, was that?

Was that a cruel attempt at humor? Were you silently laughing as you watched us panic, eyes wide with terror as we scribbled and bubbled and typed with white knuckles? I'm pretty sure you were.

I just want to give you adequate warning you before you read my trainwreck of an essay: Be prepared to read something that appears to have been composed by an alcoholic who is on a vodka binge instead of at an AA meeting. While I did not, in fact, have vodka in my free WestLaw water bottle, I did leave your exam at noon and promptly embark on a three-martini lunch in a vain attempt to erase the trauma of the previous three hours from my memory.

Unlike some of my classmates, I was fortunate enough to get something down for each part of the exam, even if it was only an incomprehensible sentence fragment with no punctuation and a random exclamation appended to the end.

This class should not have been called Evidence. No, it should have been called Schadenfreude.

Thank you,

Law School Transplant.