I didn’t see God, no tunnel of light leading to my salvation. I didn’t have an out-of-body experience overlooking my broken body lying on the ground gasping for the next breath, which I was certain was my last. There was no highlight film or Hallmark moment. No “Spanish Angels” Willie, certainly not seven of them. And no way in hell did I see that 2004 Dodge Durango swerve across a four-foot bike path, jump a curb and blindside me doing 35 mph. Nope, didn’t see it. Where were you on that one, Michael Oher?

Yeah, ya’ll should’ve been there for that one. Hell, I wish the guy who ran me over (who shall remain nameless) would have been a real man and stuck around too. Thankfully, a worker standing in a nearby yard got his license plate number. Now if he only would have had insurance my life would be close to back to normal . . . until all the arthritis sets in of course.

But look here, I’mmmmmmmmmm back! I haven’t had the chance to talk to you guys in awhile, large in part to the aforementioned. I know you’re just dying to find out about what type of legal mishaps I have encountered along the way, and boy, do I have a “goodun.” Now, if you read my articles from the winter of 2010 and first few months of ‘11, you all know that I am in no hurry to enter the confines of Murfreesboro’s high-rise, also known as 940.

I’m confident in saying that I’m not an individual who complains when I’m dealt two-seven off-suit on back-to-back hands. To me, the solution is simple, FOLD. It’s the worst hand in poker. As confident as I am in that, I’m equally confident in saying that I will stand up and speak when I’m dealt pocket aces and the dealer continually comes up with trip-kings. A person simply cannot beat the house when the deck is stacked.

Welcome to the Murfreesboro probation department. Sheisters! “Unaverage” people put into a position that they are far unqualified to handle. They treat their job like probationers are parts moving down an assembly line. Next. Next. Next. Next.

April 13, 2011, my world flipped upside down. Literally! Thirty-six feet later, I landed a new man. Athleticism, gone! Left LCL, severed. Left ACL, severed. Left MCL, torn. I.T. Band, torn. Knee-cap, broke. Right MCL, multiple tears. Left eyelid, gone. Head, stitched. Hip-pointers, broke tooth.

Over a two-week period of time, I watched the entire right side of my body turn EVERY color of the rainbow. Of course, I did this when I wasn’t using tweezers to pick the asphalt that had worked itself out of my knee, eye and forehead.

So how is the relevant? one might ask, to which I would happily answer. At the time this “man” decided to run me over and leave me to die, I had but one requirement to fulfill my obligations to the probation office. I had to get a copy of my community service signed and turned in. Should have been simple, right? (I had already long surpassed the 22 hours of community service that I was sentenced to. I volunteer for a cancer foundation in southern Tennessee that I was able to use as my hours.) As of that day, April 13, I was no longer able to walk, or move for that matter, for nearly six weeks. I was forced to move back to Ohio after 14 years as a Murfreesboro resident and proud student of Middle Tennessee State University. Forced, because I have no family in Tennessee, and I needed a lot of help, as one might imagine. Upon my move and keeping in bi-weekly touch with my probation officer regarding my status, I was given an ultimatum, “Either get me a signed copy of your community service hours, or I have no choice but to violate you.” HA! So much for humanity, huh? I’m bedridden because some uninsured motorist leaves me in such a condition, and then I’ve got a probation officer violating me for it.

I’m not complaining. I simply think it’s important for people outside of “The System” to see how poorly it’s really run, how it makes people into criminals. Because I can’t say what I want, and there is no button depicting my middle finger, all I can say is: Are you kidding me?