Today I officially started law school. Last night, at a new student mixer, I met a younger version of myself. We grew up in the same hometown, went to the same college, graduated with the same major, moved to New York following graduation to work for a period of 18 to 24 months, and we now live two floors apart in the same building AND have exactly the same class schedule. We will call her Past Leighton to differentiate her from Current Leighton (that's me) and Future Leighton, who I have yet to meet. As an aside, I believe I may have scared Past Leighton last night by telling her that the only reason we haven't killed each other is that I am two years older than her. (There can only be one Leighton in each time period, so if we were the same age we would have to fight to the death. It would get nasty; Current Leighton has no formal fighting training and would probably panic like a wounded wolverine, harming herself, opponents and bystanders alike.)
When I got home from meeting Past Leighton, I tried to compile a list of advice for her, e.g., places to avoid, things not to say, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants movies to skip, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants movies not to miss. I came up with one thing: poop chicken. (For those of you who would like to read the full story, it is entitled "Oh Sh*t" and was posted on June 4, 2006. Read it now because I am about to ruin the ending.) I realized that I wouldn't warn Past Leighton not to smell the poop chicken, I would encourage her to get more witnesses to corroborate her (our) story! I think that for a story like poop chicken to be truly believable, Past Leighton and I are going to need eight to ten qualified witnesses. I don't want to put too much pressure her, but she really needs to come through.