Early in my career, I got in trouble for calling a crackhead a crackhead. The thing about crackheads is that they know they are crackheads. On the other hand, there are some folks that fail to recognize their status in the criminal world. One example is the young, white "kids" (17-24 years old) with a marijuana conviction from an upper class family. They seem to have a sense of entitlement and believe they should be treated like their crime is a right of passage, glamorized by the Hollywood party types.
The other type is the middle aged, white female convicted of either issuing worthless checks or forging prescriptions. Obviously, this overwrought housewife type with too much time on her hands from "Mother's Day Out" has succumbed to the stresses of choosing a new housekeeper. Thus, she has either self-medicated with illegal Lortabs or more shopping sprees than her weekly allowance could sustain. Needless to say, these ladies annoy my uncouth sensibilities.
Pleasantly, I've had the opportunity to deal with a few of these dames over the last thirteen years. One in particular seemed to make a pastime of getting my goat (although I really don't think she ever realized it). Each of my clients must report to my office once a month. It's pretty simple. Come to the office, sign the log, sit and wait. The receptionist will notify me and I'll come fetch you from the lobby to make your monthly report. Well, one afternoon my office phone rang while I was sitting at my desk and I got this:
'Hey Ms. Best, this is so & so'.
'Yeah, I'm out in your parking lot. Can you come out here and see me?'
"Why? What's wrong?"
'Well, I know I have to see you, but I don't want to go in your lobby.'
'Because...I don't want to go sit in there with all those people.'
"All what people?"
'All those criminals.'
"Are you serious? You are one of those people. Now get off my phone and go join your fellow convicts."
Yep, I love crackheads. They have no shame.