Months would pass before I would hear from the roguish officer again.
Between the investigative me’s arrant failure to identify him and the echt me’s missing the duologue with a man who actually came across as intelligent, I was kind of disenchanted. But, as they say, life goes on.
My favorite drug Task Force to cyber-tease had taken aim at me once more -- this time for a so-called violation of a court order -- and that brought on possible jail issues, definite legal proceedings, and recourse and coping with their allegation through cautious blogging.
I was having personal problems with a City of Charlottesville policeman as well. The toughness of keeping our relationship and interactions secretive was wearing on him -- and he was taking it out on me, both physically and psychologically. Mostly he didn’t believe I appreciated the risks he’d taken for me. Thinking back on it, he was probably right. We would ultimately kiss and make up.
Not everything going on with me was negative. But when all you want to do is experience a Calgon commercial in the real world…
I’d always taken it for granted that when someone encountered writer’s block, it meant he or she couldn’t come up with any words; I was having the opposite conundrum: an influx of them were sluicing through my head relentlessly. In front of my computer one morning, after my fingers had flown over the keys for, like, an hour composing an update for my site, I stared at the consequences of my hellish version of writer’s block. Dullness extraordinaire. Bordering on tenebrous I craved a change of mental scenery, a noetic pick-me-up. I needed somebody fun and bright to amuse me.
Only one person came to mind: “DJ Vox.”
