why bother, you pee blood...

The fucking Police was playing when I walked into the bar.

“God damn I hate the fucking Police,” I yelled. Then I remembered something important, I was at the bar because a friend invited me. That friend? He’s a cop. And the bar was filled with cops.

So, like Tim Roth says in Reservoir Dogs, you’ve just got to jump right in and swim. That in mind, I walk up to the jukebox, just as Sting finishes saying something stupid over a backbeat provided by a drummer who appeared in a reality show about storage unit auctions. I put my dollar in. I picked my song.

“Right about now, N.W.A. court is in full effect…”

A few seconds later, a couple hundred cops were chanting along with Ice Cube, Easy-Z and Dr. Dre.

I watched this scene for a few seconds and thought back to 1988. I was a teenager who wanted to be James Hetfield. I drank like him. That was about the end of similarities. I had more of a Dave Mustaine mullet. I don’t think about high school much. Nothing much happened.

Kind of like this party. It’s at a strip-mall bar. It stinks like pee. I want to go home.

But I don’t. Why? I don’t know. Maybe something will happen.

I order a shot of Jameson and a Miller High Life to chase it down. I gave up drinking soon after my stroke. Well, I didn’t “give it up” as much as I just stopped because it hurt to drink now. That made it silly to do. Yeah, I still think about the girls and women of my past. And now, I don’t fight with them anymore. I just look at them and nod. Yep, still here.

Then I eat some unsalted nuts out of a can from CVS.

I take a sip of the beer. Fuck, it tastes bad. Then I take the shot. It tastes worse. But the beer, now it tastes OK.

Why am I friends with a cop? I’ve never had a good experience with one. It’s weird. Except that guy who showed up at my apartment in New Bern at 3 a.m. one night. I was blasting The Faces, signing along with Rod and Ronnie, and drinking way too much. I guess one of my neighbors complained to the police. Instead of just knocking on my door. Of course, I opened the door when the cop showed up in my shorts only. Beer gut hanging out, bottle of Shiner in one hand, devil horns in the other.

“Yes?”

“Sir, could you turn down the musi….Hey, is that a Jump in the Fire Metallica poster?” he said.

“Well, yes it is,” I said slurring just the it.

“Soooo awesome, man.”

“It is?”

“I never got to see Metallica, but they’re my favorite!” he said, to me, I guess still.

“Saw them twice in a month back in high school,” I said, puffing my chest a little bit. I have seen some good music, even though when SHE happened, I mostly stopped.

“Cool, cool,” he said. “But man, can you turn down the Rod Stewart? Neighbors complained.”

“Yeah, not a problem. Gotta be at work in the morning,” I said, fully knowing I went to work when I wanted. Some days at noon, others at 5 p.m., and still others never. Being the boss at that point of my life was a good, and bad thing.

“Night officer,” I said, slamming the door behind me and turning off the stereo. I drank the last half of the Shiner in my hand and threw the bottle in the trash can. It hit another bottle. “Clank, cla, clank.”

I went into the bathroom and peed … blood.

Probably should have paid closer attention to that stuff, I think, now back in the bar in a strip mall in suburban Raleigh, North Carolina, surrounded by cops I don’t know wondering where the fuck the one I know is?

Probably getting a blowjob in the bathroom, his brother says to me. I guess I’d been narrating stuff out loud again. It’s a bad habit of mine. I’ve been punched three times because of it and slapped twice. And got a girls number. Why? Because I fucking asked for it. Who’da thunk that actually works?

How the fuck did Sting get so damn rich? I think.

I order another beer and another shot. It’s going to be either a really long night, or a very short one. I hope for the latter, but know I’m in for the former.

“She’s here,” my buddy, not the cop, but the other one at the party I know says.

I look over my shoulder and yep, there she is, not HER, but instead her. She stole my heart for a moment because I left it out to rot. She kept if from rotting, and poisoned it instead. And her mom told me she liked me best.

Like mother, like daughter.

I look at her and then I smile. Why? Because I figured it out before it was too late.

I scratch my balls and think about cancer cells and Miller High Life bottle caps. This, I think, would make a great fucking story. And then I realize this is exactly why I don’t write for a living. Except for that newspaper thing any more.

Dead Skunk Rd.

The beat up red pickup truck pulled out in front of me on the small back road, somewhere near Hobgood, North Carolina. I was going about 75 miles per hour. All of the sudden, I had to slow down to 27.

I flipped my lights on and off in a sign of frustration, and all I got was nothing. Except for the music coming from the truck – The 69 Eyes. Now, you don’t normally hear somewhat dated Finnish goth out here in the sticks. So, I was duly impressed. However, I couldn’t help but think the only thing I always thought when I hear The 69 Eyes – “Am I in the middle of some awful, straight to video horror movie from the late 1990s?”

The license plate of the truck is ANGT E1. I take that as a positive for possible serial killer instinct. However, I wonder if any serial killer has ever had a personalized license plate? It seems to run against all things serial killer, as it draws attention and is easy to remember. Of course, it makes me think of the one I saw at the Kangaroo gas station in Jacksonville yesterday – Virginia plates FACH YOU. Never would thought that one woulda made it past the stringent screening system, but there it was.

Just hours ago I was lamenting the firings of so many good people at the newspapers in New Orleans and Alabama – including some of the folks who I gleaned much knowledge from in my career’s infancy – but now I was focused on getting out of rural North Carolina alive.

The speed had upped to 36 mph but I could see by the smoke rising from the engine of that truck, that we weren’t going faster any time soon. And the double yellow lines and pouring down rain made it impossible for me to pass. However, the stereo in that car was certainly kick ass, top notch, awesome, whatever words you want to use to describe loud, yet crisp, sound from a beat up pickup truck.

Finally, the lines turned dotted and I made my move. I got beside the truck and had to take a peek inside. And there in the cabin was Lindsay Lohan. I waved and smiled. She flipped me off. Seemed fitting, so I sped off down the road.

A few miles later, I cop clocked me at 71. He pulled me over, but didn’t give me a ticket.

“Hey, you a skateboarder?” he asked. “Just happened to see your license plates … L-U-C-E-R-0. Awesome. I haven’t seen that word used anywhere in years!”

“You ride?” I asked.

“Shit yeah, until I got this job. Don’t do it much anymore. Ain’t many rails out here.”

“I hear ya,” I responded, continuing the lie. My plates were dedicated to the band LUCERO. From Memphis, Tennessee. The four guys that got me through hell when the redhead left me. That was a long time ago. “That’s why I’m getting out of here so fast.”

“Well, I’ll let ya go with a warning,” he said. “But keep it down. We’re out like those damn frogs tonight.”

I laughed. And instantly he knew I was from around here. The frogs came out every time it rained. If you rolled your windows down, you could hear the croaking and the sound of them squishing under your tires as you drove along. Thousands of the bastards would come flying out of the swampy land, trying to make it across the road. Most of ‘em made it at night. But if a car came, it was The North Carolina Frog Massacre. Hell, I had a title for my slasher flick. And damn if I couldn’t get Lindsay Lohan to maybe star in it. I thought that just as she drove past. Still going under 40 miles per hour.

“Was that?” the cop asked me in disbelief.

“Yep,” I said. “Passed her about 10 minutes ago. Wonder what’s going on out here?”

“No clue, but I think I might have to follow her,” he said with a yuck-yuck-yuck quality.

I waved goodbye and hit the road. I know one thing, never follow the pretty girl who will most likely show you her tits. Why? Because then you’ll be the first to go.

I started imagining headlines in imaginary newspapers the next day. “Cop’s head found, ABP out on body.” “Lohan kills Cop.” Or maybe even “Cop kills Lohan.” Anyways, I didn’t want to be around when the Jeepers Creepers demon came flying down from the sky. Of course, right at that moment one of those big ass June bugs slapped up against my windshield, scaring the shit out of me.

I watched the lights of Lohan’s truck and the cop’s car disappear down a small road. I looked at the sign to see where it was. I think it said “Dead Skunk Rd.,” but I can’t be 100 percent sure.

Kid, just let it go

“Listen kid, you can’t go home every night, take off your pants and pop open a beer,” Lyle said. I looked into his eyes to see if he was going off on some tangent like he does sometimes. But those were the only words coming out of his mouth. For the moment.

We both took a long, deliberate swig of beer. They were so much better when the bottle was just opened. It still had that little bit of steam rising out of it and the rim was still wet. Lyle used to say he likened it to licking a pussy right after you’d pulled your fingers out. I always countered with the penis followed ejaculation statement. And he always winced and called me a fag. He was 73 years old and didn’t have much use for politically correct speak. “To hell with that,” he’d always say. “You and your God damn penis jokes. I really wish you’d stop it. You sure you ain’t one of ‘em?”

To that, I always replied “So, I spend all my time, here with you, talking about a redheaded woman who stole the life out of me, and you still think I might be a fag?”

Lyle always smiled at that. Then frowned. He was predictable. Like a hack sportswriter using clichés or quotes from coaches that included “giving 100 percent” or “one game at a time.” When they’re spoken by other people, they’re still clichés I’d tell writers under my wing. A few got it. One was a gal. She was way too sexy to be working at the small town rag we were at. And eventually, she got out. But she was trouble. By the end of her stay in that part of the state, she’d fucked every single sportswriter who had anything to offer by way of expertise or networking. Ended up marrying the one who hated all of us others. If only he knew we’d all been there, done that. He’d probably disgorge – which was the fourth entry under vomit in my dictionary/thesaurus. Which were usually the words he’d choose, just to feel superior.

“I know kid, you’re not a fag,” Lyle said after that. “But damn it, you just need to let it go.”

“It ain’t that easy,” I’d always say.

“Fuck you, kid,” he always replied. “You don’t know how to, that’s all.”

He was right. There were a lot of things I didn’t know how to. And usually, somehow he found out what those things were. I think it’s just because we spent so much time together. Sitting on those rotten old barstools just talking.

Lyle had three kids. One was dead. Shot in the head during a bank robbery of all things. He was just there to withdraw $50 to give to Lyle so he could get a tire fixed. Lyle never drove his car again after that happened. His other two – one boy and one girl – were in prison. They were both heavy drug users. Started selling it to pay for their habits and got nabbed.

His wife died of cancer when he was 45. Never even went on another date after that. However, he was quick to point out that he’d fucked at least 100 women in the last 28 years. But he couldn’t see himself marrying any of them. Why, I asked him a while back. He answered simply: “Any woman that’ll fuck me before she gets to know me, ain’t worth marrying.”

I tried to bring up how polar opposite all the advice he tried to give me about redheads, booze and kitchen sinks was to the way he lived his life, and he poo-pooed it by simply saying “Do as I say, kid, not as I do.”

“Like a cop, huh?”

“Yeah, fucking police.”

That was one of my favorite running jokes with Lyle. He hated cops almost as much as he hated Budweiser. Almost. I once saw him hit a waitress over the head with a full bottle of Bud. Simply because she accidentally placed it in front of him instead of Heineken. “If I’d ordered a Bud, I wouldn’t have done it,” he told the police after the incident. Lyle was gone for two weeks in jail after that. I missed him. But I kept drinking in the same spot. Whenever someone else sat in Lyle’s seat, I’d talk to them. But not once did anyone keep me interested for more than 23 minutes. I had Sam, the owner of the bar, keep a stopwatch on me and my new barstool friends.

“You’re a tough nut, Jones,” Sam said after a particularly short three-minute conversation with some guy in a suit and tie.

“All I said was how’s it going ‘Suit-and-tie guy!’ And he started going off on welfare and bums and such things,” I said. “I was hurt by that. I’m not a bum. I write. It’s worse than being a bum.”

“You got that right,” Kylie, the local whore, said. “Writers never have any God damn money. Until they’re gone.”

I chuckled and wished Lyle had been there to hear it. He got a blowjob from Kylie in 2004 I think he said. Said she wasn’t very good at it … “for a pro.”

Then, one day, Lyle showed up again. And we got right back to it.

“Don’t ever go to jail, kid,” he told me. “You’ll see people you never thought you’d see in your life.”

“Like who?” I replied, knowing exactly what he was going to say.

“My God damn drug-addict of a son,” he yelled.

“Quiet it down there Lyle, you just got here,” Sam implored.

“Eat shit and die, Sammy boy!” he responded with.

“One of these days, Lyle. One of these days…”

I took a sip of my beer and looked at Lyle. Over the past few years he’d become the father figure I never had growing up. Yeah, I had a dad. And yeah, he was around. But he didn’t talk to me much. And if he did, he was usually yelling or complaining. It’s where I got my great personality, I do believe. He also didn’t teach me things. I still to this day do not know how to shave with a blade. My pops never taught me. I didn’t drive until I was 18. My mom taught me how to ride a bike after I cried the first time and dad gave up.

Lyle never gave up. No matter how pathetic the story got.

He patted me on the back, every time, and said “Kid, just let it go.”

Shitting on stilts

It was cold, damp and moldy. I stood over the toilet, staring at it. It was one of those moments, pee-shy as always. A line snaked around the building outside. I knew I didn’t have long.

I looked at the walls. Anything to distract me from the mission that was becoming more impossible by the second. Six beers in, and I was ready to burst – 20 seconds ago. Right before I clicked the lock on this dirty bathroom in the back of a dirty bar. A bar that used to be a barn.

“Come on princess!” a voice yelled out from beyond the door.

It had started.

I strained and strained. Wiggled and wiggled. Stroked and stroked. Nothing.

Staring at the empty toilet paper roll I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to take a crap. A nasty, watery one. And the toll that would take on my underwear.

“Listen up Nancy!” another voice yelled out.

“Piss or get off the pot.”

Well, they were right. If I wasn’t going to pee, I had to just leave. I zipped up my fly and unlatched the door.

“Finally!” the guy behind me in line said as he grabbed the door. His pee started before the door even closed. No latching for him.

I took three steps and had to pee again. I looked at the line. There was no way on earth I could get back in the line again. I looked at the crowd surrounding the barn and into it. Fuck.

I wandered over to the parking lot. No one seemed to be around. I got next to a giant F-150 and unzipped my fly. I barely got my dick out before the pee flowed. It felt like an orgasm. I peed and pissed and sighed.

“You ever shit on stilts?” a voice from behind me said.

I finished my business and zipped up my fly. I turned around and a cop was staring at me.

“No. Can’t say I have.” I replied.

“Well, kid, you don’t have the luxury of being shy about it,” he said. “I was in a traveling circus and ended up one night being the clown on those high 10-foot stilts. Well, let me tell ya, you don’t get to take them off to take a pee or a shit.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep, and I just watched you come out of the bathrooms over there. I’d come over because the crowd was getting a little unruly waiting for you to come out. I figured you’d passed out in there. It happens. I mean every so often a couple will be fucking, but usually, they don’t get started once they see how awful it is in there.”

“You can say that again.”

“It’s awful in there.”

He stared at me. I laughed a slight laugh. The cop spit.

“Well, kid, there are two things that can happen here,” he said, spitting again. “I can write you a ticket for public urination or I can haul your ass to jail for indecent exposure. The latter makes you sex offender in this state if you’re convicted, and well, I think my testimony will pretty much assure that.”

“Those are really the only options?” I asked with a shrug.

“Well, you can just run.”

I looked him in the eyes to see how serious he was. I was 50-50.

Right at that moment, a girl popped out of the F-150. She had long brown hair and was wearing a Vinnie Vincent Invasion shirt. The lights from the stage hit her just right as she stepped out of the cab of the truck, highlighting just how great her legs were. I think I fell in love right there.

“Johnny,” the girl said. “He’s with me. Leave him alone.”

“Monica,” the cop said. “You don’t even know this guy’s name.”

I looked at Monica. She had hazel eyes and too much eyeliner on. I looked down at my feet then back up again. She smiled.

“His name’s Randy,” she said confidently.

“Well, kid, what’s your name?” the cop asked. I felt kind of funny, being 41 years old and being called “kid” by a country cop who couldn’t be older than 28 himself.

“It’s Randy,” I said.

“Well, excuse me if I don’t take you on your word,” he said. “Can I see your driver’s license.”

Panic took over for a moment. I usually leave my wallet in my car at these kinds of events. I felt my back pocket and found nothing there. My eyes must have shown some kind of fear, because the cop started in again.

“Boy, you really are testing me,” he said. “Show me your damn license. You had to have it to get in here.”

Boom. The light bulb went off. Just like when someone spells out motherfucker, but uses two words. You know right then you have them.

I reached into my front pocket and pulled out my ID and handed it over to him.

“It says Henry Jones here,” the cop said. “Looks like you lose today.”

“Sir,” I said, “My middle name?”

“Randolph,” the cop read. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“Told ya, Johnny,” Monica said. “Now, can you leave me here with my boy Randy so we can do what we came out here to do.”

The cop smiled and laughed.

“Randy, you are a tropper, my boy. You really are.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I as happy as a clam at an oyster roast that she came to my rescue. The cop sauntered away and I just looked at Monica, my new savoir.

“So, Mr. Randy, what are we going to do now?” she said.

“I don’t know, how about we get in that truck of yours and go for a ride,” I said.

“Fuck, this ain’t my truck, I was stealing some money out of the dashboard,” she said. “It’s amazing how many of you fuckers who came to these things leave your wallets in the car.”

I laughed and pointed to the Toyota a few cars away.

“That’s mine,” I said.

“Really?” she said.

“Yep.”

“Well,” she said digging into her bag. “Here’s your wallet.” She tossed me my red Swiss Army Velcro wallet. Inside were three maxed out credit cards and a press pass from my last newspaper. Nothing I needed nor really wanted.

We went over to the Celica. The back window was busted out.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Eh,” I said. “We’re even now.”

“I like the way you think, Randy,” she said reaching in to give me a hug.

I didn’t let her. Instead, I kissed her. Deeply.

She stumbled back just a bit. I watched her eyes. They never left my gaze.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

“I still have to file my story about this concert,” I said.

“Write it on the road,” she replied. “Where are your keys?”

I flung them at her and got in the passenger seat. The main act was just going on stage. I was supposed to interview them after the show. But, I knew that wouldn’t happen. Instead, I would have done some story about following a band around as they drank, did stupid things or just fell asleep. So, I wrote that anyway. Editors never noticed a thing.

Three weeks later, we were in Luckenbach, Texas. Hanging out at the general store and admiring the bust of Hondo out front.

A chicken fluttered by and we looked at the sun falling from the sky, Shiner Blondes in our hands. Not a word was said before we got in the back seat of my Celica and just passed out. Exhausted and dirty, but happier than we’d each ever been.

And the only reason I know that is the letter she wrote me 15 years later. After she’d left.

I am not a role model

I get scared when it’s easy.

That’s what the 27 year old kid said to me about writing the other day. He’s followed too many of my paths in life, but he seems to keep coming out of it on the right side. Smart kid that one. Except that whole using me as a role model part.

After that conversation I had to sit down and think about it for a bit. Who was my role model? I mean, I take after my dad in some ways. I am really bad with my money. I get drunk too much. I’m bad at relationships.  But, I have to say nothing much else.

My grandfather? I always wanted to be like him. He was quiet. So am I. He followed his heart. I do that. He was an accountant who never missed a day of work. I have only used one sick day in my career as a journalist.

But, once again, I don’t see enough. I didn’t model myself after him. Or anyone I guess.

Is that strange? I have no idea.

This is why I find someone emulating me to be a bit disconcerting.

But, lines like “So what if all my heroes are the losing kind” have to come from somewhere, I guess. So who am I to stop a kid from being whatever he wants to be. Even if it’s like me?

A couple of police cars are circling my house at the moment. I was outside just a few minutes ago, looking under my car with a flashlight. I wonder if my awesome neighbors, of who there are just motel guests, called them on me? It’s not a good thing, not being able to just check out under your car at night without a drive by of two cop cars. One, peering into my house with a light while slowly creeping by. I raised my bottle of beer in a salute to him, and then they just parked in the empty parking lot across the street. Guess they’re going to “Keep an eye on that one!” Good luck kind sirs. Why don’t you just go back to harassing folks driving their cars on a public road at night. It’s certainly what you are good at. But, like I said, you’ve got to pick something and try at it. And when you fail, take it as an omen.

The keyboard fights back sometimes. It doesn’t seem to want to produce for me. I sometimes wish it were easier. Just to sit down and type and see results. It probably is, but I don’t take the time to just say fuck it and do it. That’s certainly the next goal. To have the nuts to do that. I’m 41 and not getting any younger. My eyesight is failing faster than my teeth are rotting. One day it’ll be interesting to see if I can still tell the difference between foods when I can no longer chew or see it. Happy days indeed.

A paragraph can be one sentence.

Or it can be two. Like this.

But it never seems to matter, unless you are keeping track. If they run on and on and on and on together. Or just stay apart.

I met a lady yesterday. She seemed oh so happy to meet me. I didn’t buy it for a second. Her office had no windows. And she dressed like she shops at Kato. I hope one day I won’t marry a woman like that. It would be enough to put the gun in my mouth for me. I wouldn’t even have to think about it.

It also dawned on me that for over a decade I was ruined by one person. At first, it wasn’t ruinous, at least in my opinion. Then it was. And it festered. I like the word fester. But not when it pertains to my life and the way it has been wasted. Like a limb with a cut that isn’t treated and eventually becomes infected. It will either be cut off or saved. But a lot of that has to do with effort.

I once was told to never give up. But that seemed so silly. I learned early on that you can’t win every time. And if you expect to, that’s a lot different than actually doing so. And I’ve yet to meet that one person who won all the time.

My neck and back hurt many times now. I think it’s from over sitting.

Last week I had some money. This week I have none. Next week I still won’t have any.

It seems darker outside than usual. I think it’s because my eyes are failing. Will my eyes failing become my new teeth are rotting? Only time will tell. At least that’s what Jimmy Cliff once told me.

lying mother fucker.

Morphine’s “Cure for Pain” belts out of my CD player as I drive down U.S. 70 into Morehead City. It’s raining out and very, very cold for this part of the world this time of the year. Temperatures are expected to hit the mid-20s tonight. The snow and ice, it appears, isn’t going to make it this far south and east.

Coming home from work every day, I hate this stretch of road. Especially when it’s raining. I can hardly see anything anyway. And the rain just leaves giant puddles in the roadway. I hit one, a deep one at 44 miles per hour. Right before the speed limit drops to 35. I don’t slow until I get out of the puddle. Down to 42. Still speeding, but just about where I sit every time I drive this road.

A guy sits in my blind spot. I glance down, 42 mph. He starts to pull ahead of me. Then right beside me. I glance down again. 43 mph. We take the turn where the cop always is. I think this a moment too late. Boom. There he is.

He pulls out. Lights on.

He gets behind the guy who was passing me. He slows down and gets behind me. Then the cop flares up and pulls beside me. Hits is siren once. I put my blinker on.

Fuck. I haven’t been pulled over for speeding since 1997. In a rental car. In Texas.

I park. The other guy parks way far away. The cop parks right behind me. Lights bright and flashing. He tells me to roll up my window. He goes over to the other car. “I said pull over there!” He yells at the driver.

The cop is about 6 foot 2. Weighs a buck sixty if that. He’s black. Has on sunglasses. It’s fucking night. In the winter. He’s got sunglasses on.

I wait. And wait.

Finally, he taps on my glass.

“Why were you in such a hurry? You were going over 50.”

“There’s no way I was going 50,” I said. Yeah, you’re not supposed to argue with what they say. But this is a lie. I never have gone over 50 on that road. I’ve lived here for almost eight months. Drive that road every, single day. Never gone over 50.

“Well, you were speeding.”

“You got me there. I looked at my speedometer all the time. The fastest I was going was 42, 43.”

“Oh,” he said, taking my license and registration. “Do you have any outstanding warrants?”

“Nope.”

I sit in my car. It’s starting to fog up and get cold. Fucking shit. He’s gonna ream me to help this fucking Podunk shithole I live in make enough money to keep the Christmas lights on all month long. Just read an article in the shitty newspaper I work for. Budget shortfalls for the county’s police and fire rescue. Coincidence?

The wait becomes 25 minutes. Fuck. I’m cold now. Not happy.

“I’m giving you a citation for speeding, sir,” he says in his monotone voice, no doubt taught to him in Kiddy Kop school I think to myself. “You’re court date is March 16. You do not have to go.”

“I will be going,” I think to myself. I look at the ticket. 50 mph in a 35. Fucking lying sack of shit. Cost of ticket: $171. I don’t have $171. I can’t even buy food this pay period. Let alone pay a fucking halfway bogus speeding ticket.

“Any questions,” he asks.

“Yeah, I really know I wasn’t going that fast,” I say. He gives me the “fuck you asshole, I could’ve said you were going 51, then it would be reckless driving” look. “I was speeding, but not that much. 42, 43 yes. Over 50? No way.”

“Well, sir, that’s what I put there. That’s what it is.”

Yep, that’s just how it is asshole. Protect and serve. Eat my ass.

He stays parked behind me while giving the other guy his ticket. Another 5 minutes I have to sit there. I’m angry now. And I don’t usually get angry anymore. It’s such a waste. But my dad’s bi-polar tendencies come out sometimes still. It’s genetic. And I can fight it, but if it wants to come out, the Hulk does what he wants.

The other cars peels out of the parking lot of the community college where we pulled over. I get up to 35 and stop accelerating. He’s way ahead of me. A guy is tailgating me. Now, I’ve got months and months of speed limit driving to look forward too on the way to work every day. 41 miles exactly. Monotony will set in.

I’m sure I’ll get a traffic school thing to get it reduced. Great. Can’t wait for my insurance to go up. Guess I won’t turn on the heat tonight. It’s 52 degrees inside at 9:45 p.m. Only going to get colder. The drunks are stumbling out of their cars in front of my house to go to the Shag bar. Where’s the cop now?

Just when things were so damn close to being cool, mentally and all, this shit happens. Another hole to flop down into. My savings are shrinking enough as it is. Thanks cop. You can suck my balls. They’ll be really small since that money was supposed to pay my heating bill.

(And yes, I know I was speeding. But a 6 or 7 mph over ticket ain’t $171. It’s $80. I looked it up. I don't mind paying for what I did. But that asshat lied to my face.)