Spread 'em.

So lots of stuff hasn’t been going right. Cue violins, cue Bailey Salinger-like angst, whatever floats your boat. And so it continued last night when I realized, upon arriving home late and enduring the incessant yowls of the hairy ones of whose biological care I am clearly negligent, that I missed jury duty last week. In the whirlwind of lawyer’s calls and Google searches on Social Security forms and multiple obit drafts I forgot to report to the Superior Courthouse of the District of Columbia, a duty I considered not only civic but personally engaging and ridiculously more fulfilling than my current sex life.

I, Kris Likey, forgot about jury duty. This from a woman who daydreams about where she’d plant a body to maximize shock value and who wept openly when she gave up Court TV with the rest of her highly-priced cable. It’s a dream to me to be sequestered, 12 Angry Women and all that.

Like I do about most things, I panicked and worried that the DCPD would be knocking down my door and hauling me “downtown” given my offense. It would have been kinda fun, to be honest. Especially if they were from a K9 unit. And were prone to shining an overhead light in my face during questioning and smoking Winstons just that much too close. Classic.

The DC court lady was absolutely lovely, the kind of person they should use all this cloning nonsense on and divide her multiples among the DMV and all fast food drive thrus nationwide. A clear surprise and far cry from the tough love I imagined - secretly hoped? - they’d hand down NYPD, rough stuff, no filter style.

I report for duty later this month.