I’ve been spending a lot of time in the Court House lately. It’s even more
of a caricature of itself in real life as it is in the imagination. The security
guards all wear cowboy boots; all the offices have shelves instead of walls (or
windows), lined with thousands of physical files. (Surely, it doesn’t have to be
this way. Computers exist, encryption exists.)
Pleasant surprise: I am the plaintiff. Unpleasant and unsurprising, I’ve had a
shitty landlord in my time. After a squabble involving a bike and an AC unit,
my landlord took a lot of money out of my security deposit. And I, 1.5 years
later, carrying an unrelenting grudge that most everyone said would relent,
The assumption of the landlord, I assume, is that the student does not have
the time and energy to read the whole law. The assumption holds halfway: I
didn’t have the time, but I did have the energy and I did read the whole law.
I am more petty than I am studious, and nothing gets me [going/off] like a
good, long-term, strategy-heavy duel.
The only physical papers in my backpack are several documents relating to
my enemy and his whole family. (What’s the point of the anonymous cloak
of an LLC if you’re not going to use it, D? Say ‘hi’ to Larry and Eileen for
me!) I am my own attorney (and prophet and God) and I will be delivering my
statements in iambic pentameter. My trial is in one month, if anyone would
like to see me go head-to-head with a frat-boy-gone-investment-companyfigurehead
in small claims court.