Email Subject: If you get me out of here, I will pay you in brownies!

Case File # 74432

Email sent from alfnorman@timemail.com to sleikner_lawfirm@pongus.com:

Dear Mr Johnson. I'm writing you this email because you are a freaking lawyer and supposed to answer your phone, when a fella is calling you from the police office crying and covered in pink glaze! They gave me one freaking phone call, and one freaking email. Guess I have to spend them both on you, you prick! ... God. Sorry I'm not usually like this. As you can properly read in the police report, I'm on drugs. Drugs! And THIS is not even the worst part! This is not even why they arrested me!!!

I'm Alfred Norman by the way. You have been lawyering my father through all my childhood. Lawyering? Is that even a word? You know, I'm Lenny Norman's son. The kid who stopped talking to his family at twenty-one because he thinks they are ass-hats.

Anyways you need to help me! The cops are going to lock me up for life if I don't prove my innocence! But you are not going to believe me. Nobody fucking believes me. But I'm going to tell the truth anyway, because THAT'S WHO I AM. A NICE GUY, THAT WAS JUST BEING NORMAL AND SOMEHOW EVERYTHING FUCKED UP! Sorry ... I'll start at the beginning.

On the surface, my life seems just that: Normal. Because that's the vibe I like to give off. I work at an accounting firm, play golf in the weekends, I have a wife, kids, and a dog named Boo Boo.

Why Boo Boo? He runs into stuff. It's his signature move. The doorbell rings, he runs into the door head first. He gets excited over guests by colliding with their legs, until everyone falls over in the hallway. I don't get it. It's like the animal has no eyes.

Anyways, that is not important. I just can't keep my focus because I have too much freaking dope in my system, and I'm the type of person who gets dizzy over coffee and artificial sweetener!! Fuck, fuck, fuck! It's my fault, for telling my crazy headbanging-punk-witch-drumslayer of a wife, that she should try acting normal for once.

Yeah, you heard right. My wife is a drummer in the world famous metal band: Taking Advantage Of Sailors. And yes, me and my wife look as different as you imagine. I'm always wearing a tie, even when I sleep. Don't judge. It makes me feel comfortable. My shoes are shiny and pointy leather cylinders. If I'm not wearing a white shirt, I feel like a hobo.

My wife has no style. She has rainbows puking all over her. This morning when I woke up, her hair was neon purple. Scared the crap out of me. Looked like something fluffy was feeding on her scalp. I think she colours it when I sleep just to freak me out. That woman. Its like its her religion. Freaking me out.

Other people's wife's have a yoga practice. My wife shits with the toilet door wide open, even though I told her, that the sight of her poop-pressing-face, makes me want to pour gasoline over my body and run into a candle. A lightened candle that is. Otherwise I would just look stupid.

Other people's wife's likes to buy expensive bags and take pictures of their kids and put them on Instagram. My wife does drugs, and writes depressing poetry with black nail polish on the garage wall. Who even does that?

"But it's not like I act like a junkie," she argues. "I'm a professional artist, my madness has a schedule."

The first Tuesday in every month, when the kids is at their grandparents, she will push some white powder into tree lines on the toilet lid, and sniff them at five hour intervals through a fifty dollar bill she keeps with her drugs in a ceramic box. I tell her that she doesn't have to sit bent over the toilet like a drunk teenager, that she can just do her lines at the dinner table like a reasonable adult. But she wants to be authentic to her roots she says. I don't even know what that means, or what drugs she is taking, but the next 24 hours she will eat everything, draw on anything, and fuck anything. That's why I usually lock her in the garage.