A former lawyer herself, the guidance counselor told me straight. She was frank and competent, no bullshit. I wasn't listening, didn't listen to much in those days. But couldn't she have slapped me, screamed at me, stabbed me in the hand with a letter opener, anchoring me to her cheap plasterboard desk until I agreed to do something, ANYTHING, but take the LSAT? She didn't; that would have been too much to ask. And so I lost myself.

I got home that day, smoked a bowl with my roommate, and settled into the couch on our patio to drink a Dos Equis and watch the sun set. The sky was impossibly red, the heart of a wood stove burning deep in the winter. I fell asleep.

I dreamed of a smartly dressed woman, sitting by a window in an office inundated with files, numbers, spreadsheets, data visibly flying through the air in weird tangents. I was kneeling, and the woman's hand was around my throat, gripping tighter and ever tighter, pain and constriction growing and unbearable but without the happy relief of unconsciousness. And then she raised her dry lips to my ear and, in a nasal whisper, asked: "Can you please fix the margins and resend?"

I woke alone and breathless in the early morning cold.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2499680&forum_id=2#25055893)