“Why y’all looking at me like I’m the douchebag?”

Well, perhaps it’s the 100-pound girlfriend we’re tending to, the one with the nasty shiner on her eye.

Maybe it’s the 5 pound Chihuahua laying paralyzed on the floor that you stomped.

Maybe it’s the two heartbroken children crying because they’re taking Daddy to jail. Again.

I’d say that if the hose and smell of vinegar fit, then…

**********

There are times in this job, the job you took because you’re more driven than most to protect and heal, that everything you believe about manhood and justice wars with what society and the legal system says justice should be.

This is one of those times.

So tonight, rather than follow my instincts, I’ll channel my rage into dry, clinical prose, and I will meticulously, objectively document every single aspect of the hurt you inflicted. And I’m going to pray that every period, comma and quotation mark ensures that you will spend your days being sodomized by men larger and tougher than yourself.

And damn your black fucking soul, I can still see your little boy’s face as he cried that they were taking Daddy away. God only knows what kind of psychic torment you have inflicted on the kid in the past, and will continue to do well after you’ve gone to prison.

I still can’t help but think that seeing Mommy cap Daddy the first time he punched her would have resulted in less psychological trauma than seeing you abuse her for years.