Some time ago I got crosswise with a couple of musclebound asshats with badges from the Shelby County Sheriff's Office, No Fun Allowed Division. I was charged with possession of a whopping three grams of that deadliest of drugs, marijuana, and I spent thirty days in an orange jumpsuit at the Columbiana Spa and Resort. During this time I annoyed my fellow inmates with my snoring, developed a taste for beans, and was frequently forced to defend my Jell-O (unless it was lime -- then I traded it for Snickers bars). In addition, I paid a hefty fine. You'd think that would be it, right?
Part of my sentence was to undergo counseling and drug testing. I was also mandated to attend 36 AA/NA meetings. "Counseling" consists of sitting around in an uncomfortable circle with a group of men and women whose lives have fallen into various states of disrepair. Each session is an exercise in futility, as we try and repeatedly fail to convince the group moderator that we're all better now, having found Jeebus and admitted we were powerless over [insert something fun here].
Being neither powerless, nor addicted, nor enamored of Jeebus, I am not proving to be the most compliant group member. From what I've gathered so far, the line for expressing one's feelings honestly and openly (which we are repeatedly encouraged to do by our Care Bear Inquisitors) ends well before "this is Kafkaesque bullshit" and "how can the state legally make me attend quasi-Christian cult meetings?"
Of course, I am simply in denial, because I wouldn't be there if I didn't have a drug problem, right? Actually, I wouldn't be there if Alabama's drug laws weren't so draconian and the Shelby County Narcotics Division hadn't needed to justify their existence that week. I wouldn't be there if I hadn't treated the narcs as human beings, instead of the soulless tools of state oppression that they really are. In a county AWASH in OxyContin, methamphetamine, child abuse, alcoholism, and property crime, it was considered a valid use of resources to send two agents to my house to bust me with three grams of weed. Christ on a fucking crutch.
Yes, I broke the law. I did my time, I paid my fine, I learned my lesson. But that's not enough. Now I have to suffer through this Orwellian nightmare twice a week, attend cult meetings with booze-addled losers, and check in once a month with the county referral officer to make sure I'm not out peddling smack to the local middle school.
Enough for now. It's almost morning and I haven't slept yet, and I have to be fresh as a daisy at ten-thirty when the next brainwashing session starts. Oh, and I must remember to bring twenty bucks for the privilege of having my privacy violated and my personhood demeaned so they can watch me pee. If you're reading this, guys, I'm telling you now -- it's clean. I'm a good little monkey. Can I go home now?
Yakuza 6 is coming to the West next March
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