Stream of Unconsciousness

I am only writing this as an attempt to remain upright at my desk.

You cannot imagine how badly I want to just lay my head down, just for a minute, and close my hot, itchy eyes. I'd do it, too, but I know the people I work with would either come along and poke me with sharp sticks to wake me up, or they'd do something really bad. Like painting my toenails pink. Or something.

So, I'm carrying on this little conversation with you, in order to maintain consciousness. I'd just give up and go home, but I did that yesterday. I went to the doctor today and I must, must, must be here to teach a class tonight. Dangit.

Speaking of little conversations, does anyone remember Richie Rich's girlfriend's name? You remember her - the little red-headed girl that was poor. As opposed to a poor little red-headed girl. We were debating this at lunch. None of us wanted to know badly enough to actually google it, but still, it would be nice to have the question settled.

Settling questions is a good thing. Sometimes. Sometimes it's better not to know. And better not to ask. I'm pretty much in favor of making apologies rather than asking permission. Its not always the best policy, but I think there are fewer apologies than there are permission denials.

That was a painfully constructed sentence. Especially what with this being my first language and all.

I'm listening to Ester on the phone next door. English is her first language, too. So is Spanish. She's being all bright and chipper and trying to convince this guy that the thing he wants to do most in the world is to go to the jail and turn himself in. Sounds like she's just about got him convinced. Stupid guy.

Not me, man. If Johnny Law wants me, he's gonna have to freakin' come and get me! I ain't makin' it easy for him. ~brandishes imaginary sword~

Well, that's not really true. I'd go quietly.

And they'd never make me talk. ~evil eye~

'Cause I know stuff.

Yep.

Have I mentioned that I'm on drugs? Lots of drugs. And I got a shot. Not the kind that comes in a glass, but the kind that makes you glad you weren't wearing raggy underwear.

I need, need, need to be writing a report right now. But I sooooo don't want to. One of my most troublesome cases is going to court and I have to do a report telling the judge what I think outta happen with the guy.

He oughtta go to prison. End of story.

Accept, of course, that there is always more to the story. This reminds me of Ken, may he rest in peace. ~crosses self and wonders if it counts since I'm a protestant~ He used to end his reports with "The defendant would benefit from [insert service/program]and the Institutional Division is adequately staffed for that purpose."

We don't call it prison anymore. Its the Institutional Division of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. As if that somehow seems better. And I haven't been a probation officer for the last 15 or so years. Rather, I am a Community Supervision Officer for the Community Supervision and Corrections Department which is a part of the Community Justice Assistance Division of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.

I guess the thinking is that we are less accountable if the average citizen can't figure out what the hell it is we do, just by looking at our business cards.

We keep our true identity secret, it seems. But not for any sort of superheroish reasons or the greater good, or anything.

Tonight, in the class I'm teaching, we're gonna talk about secrets. Dysfunctional families are champion secret keepers. I am pretty darn good at that myself. Being an accomplished illusionist was a matter of self-preservation when I was growing up in a glass house.

It's also a hard habit to break.

And, truthfully, I don't even really try to break that habit. I still sorta like it.