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jwaneeta at 03:13pm on 17/04/2004
jwaneeta at 03:13pm on 17/04/2004massive spoilage behind the cut: I'm very sorry for the heroic deaths of Wes and Gunn. Okay, I'm not. I freaking love heroic death, and in my head the script of the Angel TV Movie (filmed in the frozen-over part of hell) will simply resurrect them. So I'm good with Wes and Gunn.
And anyway:
He lives. Yes, he lives. And the other one, the star of the show, he lives too! They're fighting a dragon (eh? I mean, a dragon? -- look, I'm so happy there'll be zero dragon-quibbling from me) togethuh at the End of All Thangs. Fighting the good fight. Did I mention they're together?
I realize I've been quite neurotic about my Spike-death fears, and wiser heads have been telling me it was a baseless terror for some time now. Thank you, wiser heads!
We interrupt this spoilage to bring breaking reality. A cop just knocked on my door. Walked me out to my stupid car, which got jumped and moved for the first time in a FRIGGING WEEK, at exactly 1:15 pm. Guess what? My asshat neighbor called in a hit-and-run at 9 am this morning and described something that matched my car. Jesus Christ! What?!?
The officer took measurements of an old scuff on the bumper, all the while telling me that if I copped I'd get off with just a ticket, but if I stubbornly hewed to my crazy story of having a dead alternator I could face charges. AAAAAAGHHH! I thought I was going mad. I said I was innocent. Then I grabbed my cell and started calling witnesses (the husbands and fathers of friends who have presided over the whole dead alternator thing and could witness to it being dead at 1 this afternoon) while the officer rolled across the street to compare the damage on the other car. Oh, fuck me. That was the longest three minutes of my life.
The measurments exonerated me. Go forensics. No witnesses need be called, because there's just no match.
Have you ever wondered if you were having a bad dream? The cop seemed so utterly certain of my guilt. So paternal. Open and shut, and why don't you confess and spare yourself the dire consequences of lying to the Law?
But IT WASN'T ME. I'm innocent. I didn't do it, I quavered, as the world swam dim and spotty.
And then I prayed like a freaking nut as he measured. Tense? You tell me. I mean, it was already so surreal, it seemed well within the range of nightmarish possibility that somehow, by some insane diabolical coincidence, the marks might be in the same ballpark. What do I know from accident marks? How close does they have to be?
Thought I'd disgrace myself and pass out in a faint of relief when Mr. Officer came back and cleared me. I actually saw spots.
God almighty. That was just too bizarre.
Okay, I'll try to stop quaking and yammering now. It's over. And some hit-and-run asshat is still roaming the world, while I attempt to recover a normal pulse. And now I have to deal with the uncomfortable suspicion that my downstairs neighbor is the guilty party, and that my neighbor across the street is a bat-blind, false-report-filing psycho, to boot.
I am getting really fed up with that car. It's like the fucking thing is hexed, suddenly.
*passes out*
And anyway:
He lives. Yes, he lives. And the other one, the star of the show, he lives too! They're fighting a dragon (eh? I mean, a dragon? -- look, I'm so happy there'll be zero dragon-quibbling from me) togethuh at the End of All Thangs. Fighting the good fight. Did I mention they're together?
I realize I've been quite neurotic about my Spike-death fears, and wiser heads have been telling me it was a baseless terror for some time now. Thank you, wiser heads!
We interrupt this spoilage to bring breaking reality. A cop just knocked on my door. Walked me out to my stupid car, which got jumped and moved for the first time in a FRIGGING WEEK, at exactly 1:15 pm. Guess what? My asshat neighbor called in a hit-and-run at 9 am this morning and described something that matched my car. Jesus Christ! What?!?
The officer took measurements of an old scuff on the bumper, all the while telling me that if I copped I'd get off with just a ticket, but if I stubbornly hewed to my crazy story of having a dead alternator I could face charges. AAAAAAGHHH! I thought I was going mad. I said I was innocent. Then I grabbed my cell and started calling witnesses (the husbands and fathers of friends who have presided over the whole dead alternator thing and could witness to it being dead at 1 this afternoon) while the officer rolled across the street to compare the damage on the other car. Oh, fuck me. That was the longest three minutes of my life.
The measurments exonerated me. Go forensics. No witnesses need be called, because there's just no match.
Have you ever wondered if you were having a bad dream? The cop seemed so utterly certain of my guilt. So paternal. Open and shut, and why don't you confess and spare yourself the dire consequences of lying to the Law?
But IT WASN'T ME. I'm innocent. I didn't do it, I quavered, as the world swam dim and spotty.
And then I prayed like a freaking nut as he measured. Tense? You tell me. I mean, it was already so surreal, it seemed well within the range of nightmarish possibility that somehow, by some insane diabolical coincidence, the marks might be in the same ballpark. What do I know from accident marks? How close does they have to be?
Thought I'd disgrace myself and pass out in a faint of relief when Mr. Officer came back and cleared me. I actually saw spots.
God almighty. That was just too bizarre.
Okay, I'll try to stop quaking and yammering now. It's over. And some hit-and-run asshat is still roaming the world, while I attempt to recover a normal pulse. And now I have to deal with the uncomfortable suspicion that my downstairs neighbor is the guilty party, and that my neighbor across the street is a bat-blind, false-report-filing psycho, to boot.
I am getting really fed up with that car. It's like the fucking thing is hexed, suddenly.
*passes out*
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That thought was on the same level as my insane, frozen-moment hypothesis: was it possible, I asked myself wildly, that somebody jump-started my car, drove it 40 feet to hit my neighbor's car, returned to exactly the same place and walked back to the Crazy Thieve's Home? God. Talk about dizzy panic.
Of course it turns out that the (no doubt dedicated and not-hell-bound) cop was lying in his teeth about a description matching my car. There's no description at all. I talked to the neighbour (who turned out to be a sweet old lady, wouldn't you know it) and she never saw a thing. Just got up one morning and her car was in the driveway, totally caved in.
Holy NYPD Blue. He was leaning on me! He liked me for the perp, and the means justify the ends! *raves on with her cop lingo, because it's all so very real now*
Heh. All I could see was myself in cuffs at the ol' stationhouse, and my friends trying to be loyal but drawing slightly away, because as Tony Serra famously said: Everybody's guilty. Everybody.
Oh, the drama. I know I'm a weeny, but that totally scared the crap out of me.
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Thank God I've been so square, law-abiding and ex-nunnish for so long. (*sigh* So long.) I had nothing with which to appease The Man.