Hour 2: Mid-Morning Of Justice

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An hour in, I've already grown tired of my technology. Limitless entertainment, all a few swipes away, and not a bit of it is satisfying. I hunger for more. I yearn for substance. I desire the exhilaration of courtroom battle! In lieu of that, I stare at a fellow juror's ugly Hawaiian shirt. It's no epic fight between agents of deceit and paragons of truth, but it's got enough sailboats and hibiscus flowers to keep my mind occupied with perplexing questions like "Why?" and "Why?" but in italics.

Looking around, this seems to be the norm among male jurors. Some, like me, came dressed in a flawlessly ironed button-up shirt and slacks so khaki that they're the envy of every Christian missionary in the county. The summons specifically mentioned a strict dress code, but it did not mention that I could decide the fate of a human life while looking like Jimmy Buffet.

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Go back to your lawless heathen sanctuary of Margaritaville, you beachcombing bastard!

Hour 3: Snack Time Of Justice

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More names have been called, and I'm still not one of them. I'm making do as best I can. I'm trying my damnedest to enjoy this Blind Side movie, but so far, it seems Ms. Bullock won an Oscar for playing one of those fembots Fox News calls news anchors. Due to the constant pausing of the film to make announcements regarding the jury selection, it's taken three hours to watch 35 minutes of a major Hollywood film that might as well be a Hallmark channel movie.

I've developed a Pavlovian response to the constant pausing. When it pauses, I perk up like a dog hearing the word "walk" in conversation, expecting my name to be called. I've not yet adjusted to the inevitable post-announcement letdown. It's a haymaker right to the testicles of my emotions. Why doesn't justice want me? Have I not proven time and time again that my opinions matter and, more importantly, are right?

Whatever. Their loss. I'm going to the cafeteria down the hall to pick up a sandwich. If I can't pass judgment on a perp, I can get real sassy about the quality of a public courthouse cafeteria ham and Swiss on wheat. And then I'll get real judgy about the state of their restrooms. If they're clean, I'm pooping on the geometric center of the floor.

But ... what if they call my name and I'm too busy eating and/or evacuating onto the floor of a courthouse? Hm.

I'll eat later. And I'm sure restroom floors have been pooped on already. This is a government building, after all.

P.S. We're 41 minutes into The Blind Side. It's been nearly four hours since I saw the opening titles.

Hour 4: Call Of Justice

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Horseshit.

My name and number were called moments after typing my last entry. I rocketed through the doors and cordially greeted the bailiff. He explained the jury box seating arrangement, the do's and don'ts of courtroom etiquette, and fuck him and the whole US legal system. The case we were assigned was settled out of court as we were walking down one flight of stairs from the jury pool to the courtroom.

I'm back in the waiting room and THE FUCKING BLIND SIDE IS STILL PLAYING. How many announcements can possibly be made that a two-hour movie gets stretched out to an all-day affair like a TNT Lord Of The Rings marathon? Is this courthouse a bubble of unstuck time flowing independently from the universe, like a dot of oil defiantly holding its shape as it's sloshed in water? When I walk back to my car, will I find that humans have evolved into floating fart clouds of thought?

I have to settle down. This isn't healthy. They can't do this to us. It's not right.

Hour 5: Goddamn Piece Of Shit Of Justice

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Regaining my composure has been ... difficult. And it's not just me. The room has been whittled down to fewer than 40 potential jurors, all of whom are squirming in their seats, waiting to be called to salvation. I think I saw one man try to eat his own arm. Maybe he was just picking out something from his back teeth. But if it turned out that he was eating his arm, I'd cheer him on. If he was full by the time he got to his elbow, I'd call him a pussy, then tell him that real men eat to the deltoid. Builds character.

Hour ????: jkhgxhfghf Of Justice

I am a bear.

Hour 7, 8, Or 9: Freedom Of Justice

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The Blind Side is ... off. It's just ... not on. But ... it usually pauses for the announcements. Could a complete stop mean ... no. Could it be ... over?

Curiosity ripples through the remaining few. Did we do it? Did we survive? A voice speaks over the PA system. I don't remember the words. But the feeling ... oh, the feeling. A glow, a warm glow rolling through my blood. And a smile. I remember smiles.

There have been too many false saviors. We can't trust happiness. We rise from our seats and cautiously step outside the doors of the jury pool room. Will the door slam shut on us? Could a buzz saw slice us in half for daring to leave? One by one, we scurry beyond the door frame, trying to avoid booby traps, quickly grabbing our certificates of appreciation.

Unaware of the outside's hypnotic call, we stagger through hallways and elevators with no clue where we are headed, only knowing, somehow, that we are going to a better place.

We are blinded upon opening the doors. We wince at the sight of the ball of flame above our heads. Is this the outside? Have we done it? What began as hundreds has ended as a handful. We are The Dismissed -- we survived a full day in the jury pool, a place where they break you to pieces and then keep the parts that matter. They took a part of my humanity I will never get back, and then made me think I was a sad bear. But I stole one of their pens. Retribution is mine, and so is the pen.

Luis was a sad bear the whole time. What a twist! You can find him on Twitter and Tumblr.

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For more from Luis, check out 5 Awful Traits Group Chats Bring Out In People and The 4 Steps Of Adjusting To A Whole New Group Of Friends.