Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Facing Years.. Blowing Yes Men.

The most recent defense attorney claims to be best friends with the Prosecution (as they all have claimed while passing us across the rich knots on their skull and bones stationary sets to the next guy on the list.) The State has offered my little brother 8 years. The return offer may be 2-8 years with possibly 1-2 years release with good behavior. What a fucking joke. I don't even have enough scars to count how many murderers have gotten less for outrageous and heinous crimes, and as of now, I have a fucking score of scars. Not about me though. Kind of about me though, because I am running out of friends and people who will understand this impossible situation without giving the State the right to think for them.

I would have more confidence in the abilities of these private monoliths to take care of kid gloves, if the retired Nuclear Submarine Commander of the extended family hadn't been reduced to helplessness just trying to convince the fair ground guards just to give my brother his anti-psychotic medication after being denied it for two weeks... as if that was a favor to us and not them. I've said it before, but how else could you support the dangerous delusions of a paranoid person than to arrest them at customs and then behave like fucking Neanderthals with no concern for protecting the delicate balance of mental and physical health of a man by ignoring doctors orders? Are they just totally ignorant? What is the fucking deal with getting prisoners with mental health issues their proper care? Doesn't this shit cost us billions? I'm sure it does, and guess what else. ... The billions pay for jackasses to drop the ball. Who the hell runs this crap shoot?

Don't answer that. Sometimes I forget that we execute people and we vote.

I flip through the dial like an insane bitch trying to find some piece of humanity I can tolerate.

And by the way, the defense and prosecution attorneys get along so grandly because they fucking bank and like to spend their down time shooting birdies and tossing the bankrupted "gifts" of desperate people into the painful psychic mix of exclusive cigar bar cocktails- sucking every bit down- just to deal with the "humanity" of our deepest pain with the most detached system possible, while maintaining a Western Front.

It's business for them... and really really personal for me.

The equation for how war starts can be located above.