It gets better. I had to pay another visit a few hours ago when Mr. Exfoliation showed up with the cops and demanded enterence. As a side note: I hate cops. Generally. It's the usual business: they know what your rights are, they just know they aren't paid (and, actually, it makes their job much more difficult) to inform you of them.

So Arab whips out the polaroids of the bruised arm. Mr. Exfoliation then says that he hurt his finger, too, but "I don't want to press charges." At this point the cops began laughing hysterically, I expect they haven't had this much fun since they worked Domestic Disturbance in Boystown and had to break up tug-of-wars over pink feather boas. No admittance. It turns out he spent the night wandering the street and probably spent his last 10 bucks on a bump of meth. I'm generally of the opinion that the gub'mint should be spiking that shit with arsenic in their efforts at urban beautification, but does anyone read my letters to the city council or the NSC, noooo....

Speaking of getting paid, though, she's rich, or her father is. He's one of those semi-shady Indians that own enormous conglomerates in Asia that run warehouses, handle distributing for American multinationals and also sell the little paper cups that street vendors peddle octopus in. So yeah, I'll get paid, it's just that I'd rather sit on my ass writing insane motions without a prayer of being granted by the court than doing all this freelancing nonsense for friends of friends.