So I'm standing in the Cook County Courthouse, and to be frank, I don't even know how I ended up in Chicago, but it's barely even nine o'clock and the guards watching me won't even let me raise my hands to stifle a yawn (because, ya know, maybe there's been a small gun in my stomach this whole time and only now have I regurgitated it into my mouth). I'm dressed in what I wore four days ago. Like the exact same thing I wore four days ago. But not like I've been wearing it consecutively for the past four days, just like, how I liked it so much four days ago that I picked it out from the dirty hamper and wore it again…? Anyway, if I had a dollar for every time I did something weird I'd have a lot of money. The judge walks in all like, “Hello, nice to see you, I'll be sentencing you now” kind of attitude and I don't like the looks of it. The guards yank me up under my armpits ouch that hurts but I don't even flinch, or cry, I'll be saving that for a later date. 

"Derrick B. Matheson you are hearby being charged with three counts of mail fraud," the judge says, with an air of nonchalance, like this isn't my life we're talking about here. 

Talk about pit-and-the-pendulum feeling in my stomach right now, right next to that gun those guards were afraid of.

"Mail fraud? Mail fraud! Are you kidding me! There are murderers and kidnappers out there and you're busting me for mail fraud!? You've gotta be out of your old-man mind, old man!" 

When I'm released in anywhere between 9-15 months, I hope someone will be able to read the chicken-scratch that's etched in my cell, because hey, I've got a lot to say about this justice system.

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