If potential is the capacity to become something, to do something, why do so many judges use it as an excuse to send young rapists on their way with little more than a slap on their wrists?
They’ve already become something: rotten wee hooligans.
They’ve already done something: injured someone horribly.
Maybe they should be excluded from the college experience, or at least enjoy it in a prison-type setting, where they won’t be so tempted to exercise their potential again.
…I just had a dream where I was a lawyer, and I lost a case, and that was part of my closing argument. I don’t know. I thought it was good. But I’m not really a lawyer.
That’s a funny thing about the law: you’re allowed to defend your own case, but you can’t get up and prosecute (unless you’re already a lawyer). You can’t be all “Your Honour? Ey, Your Honour! Yeah, you in the robes—I’d like to try my own scumbag.”
I mean, it makes sense. You wouldn’t know how to do that. You wouldn’t win. But you’d think for the closing argument, at least, they might let you get up, scorch the court with your fury. If you could pass the bar, maybe—can you do law if you pass the bar, even if you never went to law school? Probably not, eh?
Anyway, that dream bit the root. I hate losing, even fake losing. I used to cheat at cards—not just counting them, which I don’t consider cheating, but I’d hide them up my sleeve, lay down two at once, shuffle the deck in my favour, anything I could think of to win. I’d get caught and keep doing it. I’d cheat every time. I’d cheat at board games as well, even chess, which I hate: it takes ages to play, and who likes chess, like really?
Maybe I should’ve been a lawyer.
My new publisher says I can maybe write some legal thrillers next year, but I have to do a bunch of romances first.
…I’m still embarrassed from imaginary-losing that imaginary trial.
Don’t you just hate dreams like that, where you wake up feeling worthless and it clings to you all day? Fucking dreams, man! Motherhump!