I'm kinda pissed.

Eric went to get the mail on Sunday. (We forgot the mailbox key on Saturday and didn't think about getting the mail.)

In the stack of stuff were three envelopes from my attorney.

Instead of keeping YOU in suspense, I will tell you that those envelopes contained nothing of great importance.

More stuff that went into my file, that's all.

Still waiting to hear about the outcome of the legal wrangling over what should have been a simple and straightforward on the job injury claim.

Of course I had no clue what was in the envelopes when Eric handed them to me on Sunday, and was practically incapacitated by a rush of anxiety so large that I had to sit down.

So there we were on a Sunday afternoon, with these envelopes. Now in case you're new here, or you haven't really been reading what I say, I have some moderate to severe anxiety. For some really odd reason, it has ramped up about tenfold since all this work comp crap started.

Yes, I am taking medication, and it helps. But I suspect the medication I really need hasn't been invented yet.

For those of you keeping track, I injured the knee in January 2011. It's now May 2012. And the opposing side would have been perfectly content to let me continue to live with the torn knee until someone forced them to take care of it.

So I took care of it myself. Am I sorry? No. I'm glad I got it fixed, it's made a huge difference in my life and now they can drag their feet as long as they want, my right knee is fixed.

Statesman was the one who showed up in court in his little plaid-and-smeg-colored suit (I found it hilarious that his hair matched... well it didn't match the plaid ) and he all but groveled in front of the judge.

You've seen it on TV... and yep, it really happens. He wondered aloud how the judge 'drew the short straw' and got stuck with my case.

I thought he was unctuous and oily and servile and I'm really glad my contact with him was limited.

I was sorely tempted to take his photo from my perspective in the room.
I'm sure his suit cost more than my car.
Shitting on the little guy pays pretty well from what I understand.

But when he sat down, he looked like a guy from the 1920's wearing these:

Sorry to disappoint, but there is no way in hell that
Mr. Statesman filled up the front of those pants anywhere close to this photo.
Image stolen from here: knick

They came up to his knees and you could see his bony shins and brown suit socks. He was wearing brown shoes. I'm sure he paid someone to coordinate his clothing. Whatever he paid, it was way too much.