about me, part one
I thank the Good Doctor Polymer Noyz for his kind words of encouragement and advice on beginning this online journey in self discovery, exploration, and personal growth.
Although that last bit about "journey in self discovery blah blah blah" and all that crap weren't Polymer's words. He's not into that sort of stupid new-age sounding garbage either.
They were the words of my therapist. Stupid court ordered therapist, the prick. Stupid court ordered therapy. If I miss a session the judge said something about revoking my probation which my lawyer tells me would be very bad.
Just who the fuck does that judge think he is anyway? I mean really now, what gives him the right?
My family's highly compensated team of lawyers are still arguing the merits of their so-called warrant which that asshole Assistant District Attorney claims gave the cops the right to open the trunk. Okay, so I may have been a little drunk. Okay, so maybe I was a lot drunk, too drunk to realize the girls were underage. But those girls were drinking in the same bar I was in, so that's just not my fault. And they certainly were neither looking nor acting like high-school seniors.
As far as the contents of my trunk, well, it had been a tough week. I was tightly wound. I needed to unwind. Really now, is a half-pound of grass, a few grams of cocaine, and a handful of pharmaceutical grade Ecstacy really that big of deal? Damn puritanical just say fucking no bastards. Don't believe what that asshole Assistant District Attorney said in the papers. None of that stuff was for intended for distribution. Like I said, it had been a tough week. I really needed to unwind.
Oh well, I guess it could be worse.
Such is the bed I must lie in. At least I'm not sleeping in a bunk getting three squares day constantly being afraid of being traded for cigarettes or dropping the soap in the shower.
In lieu of The Big House I find myself stuck in Texas, sentenced to twice weekly therapy sessions, because brother, let me tell you, I'm told I'm quite the mess. Additionally I've got to go do community service whenever one of the family lawyers call me and reminds me it's tomorrow. Which is like every other Saturday or something hanging out with juveniles who are also on probation. Yeah right, like I'm supposed to be some sort of role model.
The last time one of the lawyers called he reminded me that I'm damn lucky to have their representation and to not be in jail. He then tried to reassure me by stating that the next 36 to 72 months will go by much faster than I think. The bastard. That's the kind of shit my family is paying out the ass for?
Fuck man, I can't leave the damn county without advance written permission from an Assistant District Attorney. His bad comb over and I swear it's dyed mustache combo nicely fits with his complete lack of anything resembling humor. If I did want to leave where the fuck would I go? The paranoid son of a bitch made me surrender my passport as one of the terms of my probation. At my sentencing hearing he actually called me a "flight risk" because of my nearly unlimited financial resources. Flight risk? I'll show him flight risk. Hell, I was flying higher than the moon thanks to some fine grain pure Columbian at the damn hearing. Fuck him.
On the positive side (damn therapy, maybe it's starting to work already), I can pretty much do whatever damn well I please so long as I don't leave the county or miss a therapy session or community service gig. It's like being under house arrest in a house that's way bigger than that bitch Martha Stewart's.
There are many much more worse fates than being sentenced to spend the next 36 to 72 months in a city cool enough to be a location for The Real World.
And besides, I love this town. Or I love my memories of this town. I've got the next 36 to 72 months to figure out which is which.
Although that last bit about "journey in self discovery blah blah blah" and all that crap weren't Polymer's words. He's not into that sort of stupid new-age sounding garbage either.
They were the words of my therapist. Stupid court ordered therapist, the prick. Stupid court ordered therapy. If I miss a session the judge said something about revoking my probation which my lawyer tells me would be very bad.
Just who the fuck does that judge think he is anyway? I mean really now, what gives him the right?
My family's highly compensated team of lawyers are still arguing the merits of their so-called warrant which that asshole Assistant District Attorney claims gave the cops the right to open the trunk. Okay, so I may have been a little drunk. Okay, so maybe I was a lot drunk, too drunk to realize the girls were underage. But those girls were drinking in the same bar I was in, so that's just not my fault. And they certainly were neither looking nor acting like high-school seniors.
As far as the contents of my trunk, well, it had been a tough week. I was tightly wound. I needed to unwind. Really now, is a half-pound of grass, a few grams of cocaine, and a handful of pharmaceutical grade Ecstacy really that big of deal? Damn puritanical just say fucking no bastards. Don't believe what that asshole Assistant District Attorney said in the papers. None of that stuff was for intended for distribution. Like I said, it had been a tough week. I really needed to unwind.
Oh well, I guess it could be worse.
Such is the bed I must lie in. At least I'm not sleeping in a bunk getting three squares day constantly being afraid of being traded for cigarettes or dropping the soap in the shower.
In lieu of The Big House I find myself stuck in Texas, sentenced to twice weekly therapy sessions, because brother, let me tell you, I'm told I'm quite the mess. Additionally I've got to go do community service whenever one of the family lawyers call me and reminds me it's tomorrow. Which is like every other Saturday or something hanging out with juveniles who are also on probation. Yeah right, like I'm supposed to be some sort of role model.
The last time one of the lawyers called he reminded me that I'm damn lucky to have their representation and to not be in jail. He then tried to reassure me by stating that the next 36 to 72 months will go by much faster than I think. The bastard. That's the kind of shit my family is paying out the ass for?
Fuck man, I can't leave the damn county without advance written permission from an Assistant District Attorney. His bad comb over and I swear it's dyed mustache combo nicely fits with his complete lack of anything resembling humor. If I did want to leave where the fuck would I go? The paranoid son of a bitch made me surrender my passport as one of the terms of my probation. At my sentencing hearing he actually called me a "flight risk" because of my nearly unlimited financial resources. Flight risk? I'll show him flight risk. Hell, I was flying higher than the moon thanks to some fine grain pure Columbian at the damn hearing. Fuck him.
On the positive side (damn therapy, maybe it's starting to work already), I can pretty much do whatever damn well I please so long as I don't leave the county or miss a therapy session or community service gig. It's like being under house arrest in a house that's way bigger than that bitch Martha Stewart's.
There are many much more worse fates than being sentenced to spend the next 36 to 72 months in a city cool enough to be a location for The Real World.
And besides, I love this town. Or I love my memories of this town. I've got the next 36 to 72 months to figure out which is which.
posted by dr noyz @ 4:46 PM
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