Don't stop me, tax man.

Walking down the street at 8:30 AM, I shouldn't feel as if I'm going to be stopped and searched by police.

Not that I was, but the officer that drove by me gave me the strangest look, and even went as far as to slow down to give me that strange look for a split-second longer.

It's 8:30, for fuck's sake, I'm too tired, and far too hung over to be up to no good. Stop staring at me.

There's an officer who sits on the corner of Mary and Steven's Creek, in the shade.
This cop hands out Jay-walking and speeding tickets all day.

My gripe with this is that, all day, he collects money, mostly from De Anza students that haven't done anything wrong in their entire lives. Is this truly a 'peacekeeper?'

No. This is a tax-man.
A unit that collects innocent people's pay to further enlarge an already incredibly inflated budget. Something about that doesn't sit quite right with me, but I've come to learn that my opinion doesn't mean shit to most people.

Or maybe I'm just mad because my head hurts, who knows.