The Longest 25 Yards

Anthony, I am more prone to being inquisitive to promote discussion. I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything?

This morning, I arose to find a court date looming. Usually, I carry myself before my birthday in a nonchalant manner, because I honestly don’t care about what’s going on. The more relaxed and carefree I am, the less I’ll pay attention to what happens. But no, this year was different. This year, I found myself in a small civil courtroom glancing at a defendant’s placard. I found myself defending my name from Pippa Bowen.

I love you, you love me, Pippa gave me HIV. It started with a kiss and ended in the bed; in six months I will be dead. I love you, you love me, Pippa gave me an STD. It started with a kiss and ended on the floor; oh dear God I fucked a whore.

Nerves have never been a problem. I’m a natural talker, or more accurately, performer. I spoke with my confederates, and they assured me if I did nothing stupid, I’d be fine. I spoke with a professor who specializes in oral persuasion; she gave me a few hints and theories I might like to employ. The situation got out of hand, even by my standards. There was no way I should have been on the defensive for anything other than…I’m not sure. I missed a couple classes in the meantime, which is never really good. If I didn’t pass the last couple of days listening to my friends cheer me up, I’d feel horrible. Hell, that Barney song was enough to leave me in stitches.

Once I saw her, all of my old feelings rushed back. I didn’t know how I’d react, but I just wanted to go over there, give her a hug, and say everything was alright. She had just broken up with her boyfriend (who discovered how crazy she was and got her to end it), and had pretty much alienated all around her, even those with a helping hand. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that, because facing me, everything wasn’t alright. I stood there in my sweatervest, counting down the minutes until my case would be heard. The funny thing is that I clean up nicely when I dress up; however, I feel fake as sin. Brandon, who graciously got out of bed to keep me focused, mentioned that I looked like I was trying too hard to not look guilty. I laughed, because it did fit how I felt at the moment. Seriously, me, dressing up? It doesn’t work. It just doesn’t work. What also didn’t work was old emotions flaring up, which is why Brandon kept whispering in my ear “heart of stone.” I knew it, he knew it, hell, Pippa knew it. After listening to a Vietnamese case, it was time to shine.

My voice had a reticient tone to it, something that hasn’t happened before. I didn’t want to do it, but faced with the judge and a stenographer, I didn’t have much of a choice. The proceedings did not go nearly as they should have in a fair game. When I first saw the judge, I thought “hmmm, what are the odds he’s going to see his granddaughter against the scary black man?” As it turns out, pretty fucking high; old white guy meets young blonde girl. She started crying, and that’s when I saw a warmth appeal, as described in chapter nine of a textbook I love. When I was allowed to speak, I started poking holes in her argument, practically getting her to commit perjury. Looking at the judge, facts didn’t matter. Pippa played such a good victim that it defies belief. By the way, since when is okay to file a restraining order against someone and then conduct surveillance? Really? I missed the memo, but I was clearly miffed at that revelation. As it stands, three years of 25 yards away from her, and I can’t own a gun.

What’s that metronome I hear? Perhaps the end is drawing near; you never hear the shot that takes you down.

I’m disappointed in the justice system. As a political science major, I expected impartiality, and did not receive it. A pat on the back from Brandon did enough to calm my nerves, and plan the next phase. First off, I’m looking at an appeal. If I followed procedure a little more tightly, I would have given myself an edge. The girl perjured herself for fuck’s sake; if that isn’t a sign, then I’m lost. I do not have a problem with staying away from her, because I’ve gotten nothing but grief in knowing her, besides that one awesome bang where I found out that I like spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, and doing it during “that time of the month.” God, that was so much fun, despite the blood. I’ll keep it close that she did call me The Shaman of Sexy…in bed. LOLZ. There are few things that can top nailing a girl while she’s texting about your tardiness…very few things. I better keep that memory tight, because the idea of dating again doesn’t appeal to me. Even sex has lost meaning.

And since we’re on the whole surveillance aspect, yes, I still know you’re reading, as you’ve come here twice today, and a couple times yesterday. Since the judge said it’s okay for you to “know where I am”, just know I’m in my room enjoying Chipotle. I’ll respect the order, but expect an appeal so we can drag this out and make it painful. Or who knows, I might grow tired and move on with my life, which is what I was doing. I’m sorry your boyfriend found out about your instability and tried for three weeks to get you to break up for him; he’s a smarter man than me. How do I know this privileged information? While you voluntarily check on my actions, the people you piss off somehow seek me out and enlighten me that what I said was true about your tendencies. Get help. Get some rest; you filed your order against me, so there’s no reason for you to be afraid. Well, there is a reason. You acted dishonorably and in bad faith during this whole proceedings, so hell will be calling your name. If you can sleep tonight, I’ll be shocked, since fear is so abundant in your mind, and the giant rugby player isn’t there to stroke your ego, because again, he’s smart. You got your wish, you’ve done more damage to my name, and well, be proud of yourself. You humbled me. However, in the process of humbling me, you’ve brought me back to my roots. Speaking of roots…

I came to terms with CSULB for a multiyear extension to study Communication. That’s right, I’ll be back expanding salsa and cultivating awesome. Since I still have my popularity and cult hero status here, I will be here plenty. About the only thing that’ll change is my living arrangements, or so I think. This fall will see the dream reunion of The Modern Stallions, Guy and McIntyre. Alright, the name might need work, but yeah. I’ll be on campus more than the past, because my job is TEACHING on campus! Who knows, you’re a Communication minor…you might come in contact with me. And rest assured, if that does happen, I’ll keep it professional as long as I can before I call the cops to escort you out before I consider failing you.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so pissed off at the judicial system: whodathunkit? Skibbedebebop. Much later

Current Track – Eminem “Despicable”

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1 Comment

  1. hey, it’s kristen.  i read this too.  congrats on getting the teaching position.  are you doing that instead of grad school or are you going to be doing both?  other than that, i hope everything’s okay…

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