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I watched a documentary called Meth Storm today. It was an uncensored version on youtube. There was a lot of shit that hit close to home for me. It dredged up some memories of my ex. Goddammit, I don't want to remember, but now I have no choice but to ride these feelings out. I remember the trashiness of the people I lived with. I remember the disarray and lack of organization. I remember the use of meth, and covering for the bitch that was my ex's sister. I remember hating them so much, but feeling absolutely powerless to say or do anything to express my misery. I remember his ill educated speech and assumptions. I remember the haze I went through when we got drunk or smoked weed and the drama that ensued whenever it happened. I remember my ex's worthless mother arguing with people at the factory which we both worked about how I needed to support him not getting a job, and at the expense of my own health and well being no less. I remember how my ex was on the run from the law for the longest time due to a bench warrant issued for not showing up to a court date relating to charges that violated his probation. I remember breaking down in front of the jail guards the first time I went to visit him. They had told me that I had come on the wrong day and I would have to visit on the right day at the scheduled time slot for people in his section of the jail, which prompted my breakdown and them ultimately letting me talk to him. I still feel so fucking angry for feeling that way about an asshole who, along with his family, didn't give two shits about me. I served the role of a cash cow, never mind making decisions for myself or even entertaining the things I wanted. I remember how on the day that I ran from their house, he had come to my aunt's house looking for me and the first thing out of his mouth was asking where I was and that I had rent/bills to pay that day. No concern about whether I was ok or if she knew whether I was in danger, not a damn thing of that nature. This anger was further compounded by the fact that when I got caught with weed at a rock concert later on, I jumped through every single motherfucking hoop that was presented to me and I avoided getting charged to begin with. I showed up at my court date and I handled my business like a fucking adult, not some whiney ass who didn't want to "deal with the system." He was the classic caricature of the drugged up dumbass that Maynard talks about in Lost Keys and Rosetta Stoned, the one who is a fan of Tool but literally doesn't get the meaning behind the music.
And all of this was brought on by a jail visit scene in a documentary. It came out of nowhere, and I wasn't prepared for it. I don't want to be pitied or looked down on for getting in trouble myself. I vehemently disagree with the criminal status surrounding marijuana. I just used that as an example of being responsible, even when dealing with a broken system that's more geared to churn people through it's gears than to rehabilitate them. I've never touched anything other than weed because of the people I knew back then. I guarantee you I have no regrets about smoking, only a motivation to see the law and it's processes change for the better.
ACT I: Innocent Exploration
Scene 1: My friend and I go to see Star Wars: Episode III.
Scene 2: Walking home, we take a walk around my old middle school.
Scene 3: Uh-oh. Looks like those cops disapprove of us wandering around here after-hours. Let's go talk to them and explain ourselves.
ACT II: The Right To Remain Silent
Scene 1: Thrown to ground, possessions taken out of pockets and placed on roof of cop car, cuffed and tossed into backseat.
Scene 2: Locked in the backseat of a cop car, while all of the cops and vehicles scatter. Sound of sirens and an assault rifle in the distance. 45 minutes later, cops return to take me to jail.
Scene 3: Answering questions, mugshot, fingerprints, now get your ass in that cell.
ACT III: Prisoner
Scene 1: Other occupant of cell gets taken out after a few minutes. I wonder when they're going to tell me how long I'll be waiting in here.
Scene 2: Hours and hours and hours. Alone. Too cold to sleep. Teeth chattering. Would exercise, but floor is covered in what seems an awful lot like piss.
Scene 3: Crappy food served for breakfast. Waiting for hours and hours. It suddenly dawns on me that several of my possessions, including an expensive cell phone and sentimental pocket knife, were left on the roof of the cop car and are probably now irretrievable.
Scene 4: Through window, I see my friend leave. I wonder if they're going to let me go anytime soon too. Or at least tell me how long I'll have to wait.
Scene 5: About nine hours later, I feel like I should speak up. They tell me that I can bail myself out. I do, go into debt, and leave just shy of 24 hours after I got there.
Coming soon, "Discovering That Trespassing On Public Property Not Only Is A Crime, But It's A Felony, Which Is Ironic Because Trespassing On Private Property Is Only A Misdemeanor, But Anyway I Better Get A Good Lawyer Because This Is A Really Really Stupid Thing To Go To Prison And Lose My Scholarships Over" (a one-act play)