Ok, this is a little odd, but I've been having really, you know, involved sex dreams about one of my profs. I mean, I really don't particularly like this guy, or even enjoy his class, but these dreams are insane. How do I stop them? I mean, what the hell?

-Desperate Insomniac on Sub-3

Law school is trying to kill my love for HBO On Demand. I'm sure of it. I can't see Six Feet Under without contemplating trusts and estates, Cathouse without thinking about feminist jurisprudence, Deadwood without hiding from the FCC, True Blood without the 14th amendment, or Carnivale without contemplating the religious, historical, and yet strangely post-apocalyptic mysticism of we, we happy few, we band of schmoes who willing decided to put ourselves through law school in the hope for something, anything better.

And now, Real Sex.

When it comes to teenage sexuality in the United States, it seems the end times are pretty much always near.

There are few things scarier to a student journalist than researching school censorship. No, really.

So you may've heard about the Rally for Equality held this past weekend (more coverage on that will be in the next issue), and no, we didn't have permits, so you're probably thinking, "worst law students ever." Because clearly, even with the near complete lack of black letter law in the Michigan Law curriculum, permits aren't exactly the sort of apocryphal, atypical legal measure one tends to find on one page in one book buried in the deepest nether regions of the stacks and under the protection of the industry standard seven seals. But honestly, it couldn't be helped - generally permits are obtained weeks, if not months, in advance, and no one really knew the country was going to go all Ted Haggard (pre-sex 'n' meth scandal, natch) come November.

There are few fundamental truths in this world. Bears generally crap in the woods, the Pope tends toward Catholicism, pretty much everyone dies, multiple choice finals are rarely as easy as they sound, Chemerinsky probably knows more ConLaw than you do, and Americans are completely bipolar about sex. These are the things we think we know for sure.

Shut my mouth and call me Susan - y'all actually sent in questions (relatively) unbidden!

See, the one thing I'm most often asked in regards to this column is whether people actually write in, or if I just make the questions up whenever it suits me. (Actually, that question is probably tied with "do you seriously put this on your resume?", but whatever.) Let's put this one to bed, shall we?

Every article I've ever read about the law school summer has reflected on the jobs available as ones of extreme cushiness and dubious amounts of work. It gives many folks outside the legal profession the impression that every summer associateship is one of extreme "baller"tude, where debauched law students take their ridonkulous salaries and make it rain (a la Fat Joe) for a few months before eventually embarking on a career path that allows them to make it rain (a la John Grisham) on a more permanent basis. Since no one on CNN/MSNBC/WSTFU seems to care enough about those working in the public sector to write all that much about them, this misconception generally goes uncorrected.

I have to tell y'all, law school (or really, the RG) is totally impeding my ability to read the news with any degree of enjoyment. (Cue sad music.) Whereas before, if a friend sent me an article about wombat rapists, picnic-table banging, or castration as a sentence reducer, I could easily delight in the vagaries of the Wonderful World of Sex and the Law; now, I'm plagued by two recurring complaints.

For anyone living under a rock - yes, Sub-3 counts - Eliot Spitzer, (newly former) governor of New York, was recently discovered, via federal wiretap, to be patronizing some seriously expensive (like, more than a week's salary in NYC Biglaw expensive) prostitutes. When the prostitution ring got busted, so did he, and Albany still has a touch of the vapors to prove it.