Basically, the police found a baggie of marijuana in my car (which was parked in my driveway -- the cop just randomly walked up, as if he was bored and figured it looked like a weed car). Since it was my first offense, I was given one year of probation, drug and alcohol treatment classes, 40 hours of community service, and three full weekends in the slammer. So, yes, they sometimes do jail terms like detention in The Breakfast Club.
Only in this case it's your cellmate who gives you the horns.
Later, I was riding my bike, enjoying my last hours of freedom and rethinking my life choices. That's the last thing I remember before I woke up in the middle of the street, covered in blood. I'd been hit by a car, my arm broken at a complete right angle. The courts actually gave me an extra week before starting my jail time in order to undergo the necessary surgery to fix my obliterated limb. The weekend after my surgery, I was in a cast and under lockdown. And herein lies the problem:
I was on a regimen of about six Oxycontin a day as well as a muscle relaxer in order to manage the pain of recently having six screws, two bolts, and a metal plate shoved inside my arm. I thought I would be fine just bringing my pills and my prescriptions in with me to show that I needed them, and the guards or whoever would dole them out to me as needed during my stay. Imagine my delight when the officer informed me that I wouldn't be getting my medication until they heard from my physician -- who, like most doctors, was not in the office on weekends. I was so fucked that the officer actually said, "Looks like you're kinda fucked."
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