Heya Culpa

Remind me next time not to fight the ticket.

I sit in traffic court, waiting to be called by the clerk so I can change my plea to “Guilty.” My cop is here–so much for the notion, widely dispelled, that “they never show”–and if I fight him now and lose–which I will, because I did it–I’ll forfeit my right to go to traffic school. So this entire enterprise has been a colossal, Kafkaesque waste of time. After eight hours of sitting in various seedy city courtrooms, staring at blue tiled floors and watching municipal employees chat each other up over styrofoam cups, I am going to have to pay the damn ticket. It’s so annoying. One more futile attempt to beat the system. I’m an ass. An ass with an empty stomach. And an ass nearly four hundred dollars the poorer.

Makes the notion of going back to work seem, if not more palatable, at least more necessary. Which is good, because I start, part-time, tomorrow.

Vacation is officially over. Life is back in session.

As for court? It never stopped.

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