Jailhouse doctors, rubber cement and you . . .

The final countdown!!! Graduation is next week!! Yay! Then I am officially a real cop . . . who works in a jail. Yeah, I know. Don't rub it in.

So this guy comes in the jail and starts telling me how he diagnosed all his health problems on his own. He obviously did good research, as proven by the following statement: "I have grandma seizures." Right. I'll let her know.

I realize I look young for my age but it's been awhile since I've been carded for alcohol. Consequently I don't always carry my ID in the grocery store. Apparently, this is a mistake. At a national chain who might rhyme with "wall dart," I attempted to buy *gasp* rubber cement. I am in my mid-twenties, in uniform. The clerk's response? "Uh, you're right on the border of looking eighteen. I need to see some ID."
Are you freakin' serious? Really? For rubber cement? While I'm in uniform? Whatever . . .