Taylor Kole's Blog, page 3

Entry 5: Unreal Reality

Entry 5: Unreal Reality

So far we have discussed CO’s tussling with inmates, cordial murderers, density shifting shanks, and ultra clean intestines.

What I want to write now is so outlandish that I had decided against it, thinking it better to skip a day than lose the few readers I have with content that’s hard to believe. However, the insanity compounded on two occasions, so we will call those signs and proceed.

Most humans, especially those who deal in the cash fluid business of narcotics, know police corruption exists. Police don’t become magical when they accept a job. They are people. Nothing more. They take the job because it pays well and is, for the most part, cushiony. From my experience as a poor kid in the ghetto and as a well-to-do man socializing with a few, I can’t say any of them join out of a passion to do good and serve. Not one. Maybe they’re out there?

During my arrest, eight hundred dollars and a few ounces of silver vanished (forty times that in cash was stolen during my first arrest, three years ago). Again, some police believe in what they do, have morals, and think they’re the good guys. The ones I interacted with thought that line was for suckers.

Around two a.m., a few CO’s arrived and chatted with those working in my block. I am located directly above them and had no view, but I could hear just fine. A female informed the guy, or guys, working that she had found a joint.

The word itself caused me to stand at my bars and listen, curious to learn how it entered this fenced-off world.

They seemed pleased by the find. Soon, someone shuffled a deck fo cards, a lighter flicked, someone coughed in a way many of us know, and then a waft of odor that I used to enjoy so completely filled the air.

An inmate shouted for them to share. Another, as floored as me, kept repeating, “They’re smoking weed. They’re blazing down there.”

The CO’s giggled, continued to play cards, and I decided I had my next prison blog post. Later, I chalked it up as too absurd and went to bed. Out of all I have learned about prison, the guards’ behavior is what blows my mind. This group is okay with me, but the next man I’d like to discuss works the day shift and previously called me a dumb fuck.

First, I must explain that inmates do not get any handbooks (at least my batch didn’t). Our only means of learning what goes on (when to shower, wash laundry, how to get religious books or visit the law library) is through our peers, but get caught talking and you receive a ticket which may affect your prison allocation and will be scored against you when you see the parole board, which could cost you a flop.

That leaves the guard who works the desk. Unfortunately, ours waits for any questions like a trap spider, launching rudeness at anyone who approaches.

I refuse to speak to him. I’ll just shower barefoot and fight athlete’s foot when I get it. I’ll let my hair grow and wind up looking like a cross between Jesus and Charles Manson (or is that the personality mixture I embrace?).

Anyway, while we were locked down and silent, a man in a cell below me asked the guard a question. I was nearing asleep, a state many of us hover in due to the lack of stimuli, but his voice brought me to attention and I heard the rest clearly.

The guard replied, “Why should I answer a guy who sucks little boy’s dicks?”

“Fuck you, man. I’m in here for cocaine.”

“No fucking swearing, convict.” The guard replied. Then in a louder voice, “You little boy molester.”

The chastised man wisely kept quiet.

Needing more, the guard hollered, “Should I tell them what cell the guy who rapes little boys is in?”

In a whisper, the man pleaded, “Why you doing this to me, yo? You can look me up. I’m in here for cocaine.”

“You’re in here for what I say you are. I say you suck little boy’s dicks. That’s what follows you. And that’s what gets you stabbed on the yard.”

The man stayed quiet. Hours passed.

Then a young kid asked how he could get a sheet of paper. When we arrive, they give us one stamped envelope and a three inch, pliable pen, but no paper.

The guard asked him what he was in for.

The kid replied with pride. “Murder. I got life.”

“You’re nothing but a bitch.”

In prison, the word bitch is powerful. It’s like a white glove across the face, or running into a Nation of Islam prayer meeting and dropping N-bombs.

It’s the top level of disrespect.

“I ain’t no bitch!”

They argued at near a shout for a minute. The guard’s remarks were subtly racist and when the kid said, “I’ll knock your motherfuckin’ teeth out,” the guard scoffed and said that he ain’t shit without a gun and his homies. The kid fired back that the guard hides behind his badge, told him to open the cell and see what happens.

The guard laughed. “If I do that, I’ll taze you, break your legs, and stick you in solitude for a year.”

Kid said he wasn’t scared, but his voice cracked.

The guard explained the psychological drain a year in solitude put on someone.

The kid shot back, but his tone was flat.

Smelling blood in the water, the CO described how being in the hole denies you access to mail, television, books, visits. How men cry and beg. How they long to kill themselves but lack the ability.

Defeated, the kid foolishly tried to inject logic and reasoning. He said, “I just want a little respect, man. I ain’t do nothing to you. I want paper so I can write my little sister.”

The guards described the men this kid would meet at his prison. He told him they had been pumping iron longer than he’d been alive, they had  foot long cocks, and they raped every new kid who arrived.

The kid stayed silent.

After a few seconds, the guard said, “Now tell me you’re a bitch.”

“Man, no.”

“You are, so just say it.”

Silence.

It’s quiet, but I could feel three hundred set of ears listening. I imagine the kid felt shame, but he didn’t understand that we were with him. We all heard the atrocity. We all hated the injustice.

“Say it, you little bitch.”

Nothing.

“Say it nice and loud or I’ll take everyone’s yard.”

We only get forty-five minutes of yard every third day. It’s our only chance to chat, our only stint of sunlight, our only access to phones, and our only time to walk. Being the reason some lifer didn’t get to make his phone call could get you hurt.

“Tell me you’re a bitch or I’ma take everyone’s yard.”

A raspy voice broke the silence. “I’m a bitch ass nigga.”

Chuckles rolled down the galley and then someone added. “I’m the biggest bitch alive!”

More comments concerning the speaker’s level of bitchness peppered the catwalk.

Laughter snuffed the malevolence. Once extinguished, we returned to silence.

I hope quarantine is the worst of prison.  

Entry 4: Prison levels

Quarantine is a waypoint for prisoners. We are assessed mentally and medically. That information is compiled along with the length of our sentence, the crimes we committed, and our behavior over the thirty to sixty days spent here.

Once calculated, we’re assigned to one of five prison levels, or a bootcamp. I will outline what I’ve learned about each.

Boot Camp:

Boot camp is the ultimate hope for inmates. You qualify with any sentence less than three years, along with it being your first time to prison. Being that it is a ninety day program, from the moment of your arrest until you return home can be as little as six months.

It would be a stretch for me to make it. I would accept if offered, but I might be the only inmate uninterested.

My emotions are swirling.

If I am to live a healthy, crime-free life when released, I need time to reset and to cool off; like years worth.

Level One:

Level one prisons are for inmates with three years or less, or those who transfer down from a higher level facility.

The supposed advantages are more rec-time, more programs, and most important, if you do your time without problems, your parole is more probable.

The downside is most inmates are young and arrive with an expectation of prison. Petty fights, theft, and annoying loudness are a way of life.

You sleep in eight man cubicles with only a partition separating you from adjoining pods, which adds to the potential for problems.

Level Two:

Level two prisons are for inmates with sentences above three, but less than seven years, those with less than three who have proven themselves unruly, or those who have worked their way down from a higher level with good behavior.

You will find many people doing life in a level two. Some inmates prefer these due to the two man rooms. Inmates are assigned a key, giving them a greater sense of control and the ability to find occasional privacy.

There is a higher gang presence at a level two.

There are fights, some stabbings, but it’s a more respectful environment.

This is where I hope to go.

(There are no level three prisons. Don’t ask me why.)

Level Four:

Level four prisons are for those people sentenced to more than seven years or those who have been disciplined from lower levels. Due to the average age and violence factor, life in level four is cautious. Time out of your cell is limited. People are respectful and distant. There are fights. There are stabbings, but most transgressions are capital offenses. People stab the neck, not the back. Rape is a method of payment for collecting debts.

When you gamble or borrow without adequate currency in your cell, it is called borrowing on ass (I assume most who apply for these loans never read the fine print).

There is a story I heard from a trusted cellmate of a gregarious prisoner who liked to laugh and kick-it with a variety of groups. He borrowed, or lost, thirty dollars to a man involved in an organization and assured them his wife would pay within the week.

She was three days late. And in that time, he was repeatedly raped by six men.

He never recovered mentally. He became what is known as a bug. Bugs cover a wide variety of the mentally unfit. They jerk their heads like birds when looking around. Their hands are always flexing and intertwining. They pat their scalps as they tell stories about Earth being inhabited by twelve thousand species of alien.

It was rumored the accosted man was breaking bars of Irish Spring, shaping them, and inserting them into his anus.

A few weeks later, the doctor found thirty-seven half-bars of soap lining his colon.

In prison, it’s best to limit your circle of friends.

Inmates at level fours utilize many formidable shanks. A lock-in-the-sock to the face is tantamount to a punch in the mouth at a level one. A gruesome method, which I hear is often employed, is a shank forged from fiberglass. An inmate will sneak handfuls of the pink material and spend days pressing it until the point is sharp and the body sturdy. Once stabbed into an enemy (almost always the neck), it is broken with a flick of the wrist, leaving the blade buried. When a victim frantically attempts to dig it out, they find all they can grasp are spindling threads

Entry 3: Good & Evil, same coin

We all start out so lovely. It’s clearly unnatural for humans to be cruel. That is not to say that many are not, or that it isn’t one of our top attributes. Read any book that details the atrocities in war (Flyboys is good one) and you’ll consider whether the opposite is true. But even those acts of insanity seem to stem from an inner desire to bury surrounding horror. That, or the Devil truly exists.

I was woken at six and told to come downstairs. Two guards waited behind a gloomy reception counter. One asked what I wanted. I said I wasn’t sure. The other said that’s because I’m a dumbfuck. But seeing him, not his words nor his scowl, I know he was going against the very fibers of his will when formulating such a waste of energy.

The second guard sensed it too, for after taking my name and searching a form, he politely explained that I was supposed to head over to early chow and then to medical.

Outside, walking the hundred yards to the chowhall, I felt nostalgia as the humid morning air splashed my face. That was the first time I had been outdoors at that hour in over a decade. Well, sober anyway. I strolled to breakfast with a grin threatening to overtake my features. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

After eating, I went to medical.

Over the next six hours I spoke to a doctor and had my heart-rate and blood pressure checked. The entirety of my medical experience spanned perhaps fifteen minutes. For the other five hours and forty-five minutes, I listened to the fifty inmates around me.

I noticed there was a door that separated two worlds.

One world consisted of wild convicts who detailed stories of the murder that brought them here, the lick they hit, the snitch they wanted to kill.

A story from the previous day circulated of a prisoner on the fourth tier, in a section far from mine, who briefly bested two officers in a tussle and nearly pushed one over a railing. And though the officer was uninjured, everyone glowed when envisioning the inmate who, sick of being ridiculed by the guards about the foolish manner in which he had been apprehended, decided to strike back, and despite overwhelming odds, had brief success.

On the other side of that door was a world so polite that a blind person would have believed they were surrounded by men addressing their mothers and grandfathers. Guttural, “yes, ma’ams.” and “no sirs” peppered the room. Everyone was orderly and patient.

What made those two worlds so unique was they were populated by the same men.

On one side of the door guards watched, barked, and threatened. On the other, medical staff smiled, kept eye contact, and were interested in what was said.

As an observer, nothing could instill more confidence in the potential for human decency than witnessing society’s trash display decorum fit for an elite luncheon.

Conversely, which to me is an astounding wonder of man, is that many of these men of cordial excess will go on behind these walls and stab others, sodomize, and extort the weak.

I’m not sure any of that matters or was as insightful as it felt, but they were my thoughts for the day. I hope you enjoyed, and I thank you for respecting me enough to read this.

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Entry 3: Two Worlds

We all start out so lovely. It’s clearly unnatural for humans to be cruel. That is not to say that many are not, or that it isn’t one of our top attributes. Read any book that details the atrocities in war (Flyboys is good one) and you’ll consider whether the opposite is true. But even those acts of insanity seem to stem from an inner desire to bury surrounding horror. That, or the Devil truly exists.

I was woken at six and told to come downstairs. Two guards waited behind a gloomy reception counter. One asked what I wanted. I said I wasn’t sure. The other said that’s because I’m a dumbfuck. But seeing him, not his words nor his scowl, I know he was going against the very fibers of his will when formulating such a waste of energy.

The second guard sensed it too, for after taking my name and searching a form, he politely explained that I was supposed to head over to early chow and then to medical.

Outside, walking the hundred yards to the chowhall, I felt nostalgia as the humid morning air splashed my face. That was the first time I had been outdoors at that hour in over a decade. Well, sober anyway. I strolled to breakfast with a grin threatening to overtake my features. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

After eating, I went to medical.

Over the next six hours I spoke to a doctor and had my heart-rate and blood pressure checked. The entirety of my medical experience spanned perhaps fifteen minutes. For the other five hours and forty-five minutes, I listened to the fifty inmates around me.

I noticed there was a door that separated two worlds.

One world consisted of wild convicts who detailed stories of the murder that brought them here, the lick they hit, the snitch they wanted to kill.

A story from the previous day circulated of a prisoner on the fourth tier, in a section far from mine, who briefly bested two officers in a tussle and nearly pushed one over a railing. And though the officer was uninjured, everyone glowed when envisioning the inmate who, sick of being ridiculed by the guards about the foolish manner in which he had been apprehended, decided to strike back, and despite overwhelming odds, had brief success.

On the other side of that door was a world so polite that a blind person would have believed they were surrounded by men addressing their mothers and grandfathers. Guttural, “yes, ma’ams.” and “no sirs” peppered the room. Everyone was orderly and patient.

What made those two worlds so unique was they were populated by the same men.

On one side of the door guards watched, barked, and threatened. On the other, medical staff smiled, kept eye contact, and were interested in what was said.

As an observer, nothing could instill more confidence in the potential for human decency than witnessing society’s trash display decorum fit for an elite luncheon.

Conversely, which to me is an astounding wonder of man, is that many of these men of cordial excess will go on behind these walls and stab others, sodomize, and extort the weak.

I’m not sure any of that matters or was as insightful as it felt, but they were my thoughts for the day. I hope you enjoyed, and I thank you for respecting me enough to read this.

Entry 2: Riding Out to Prison

At 6:30 am I am told to get ready to ride-out. I’ve been waiting so many days, perhaps years, to hear those words that I’m not nervous. I just want to get on with it.

I’m walked down a long white hall that I didn’t know existed and placed in a cell with men of a similar fate.

The paperwork processes us along as the guards shackle up that day’s load, which today was fifteen men. As we waited, some men boasted of previous visits, others recognized one another from time they’ve done together years ago. They asked each other how long they had been out, rather than what brought them back in. They talked about how they would never go back, long before we ever arrived.

As they shackled us, a large man started belittling an older, odd-looking officer. Unfortunately for me, the officer was shackling my ankle. He cranked it down as tight as it would go, making it painful to walk.

We moved to an underground parking lot. Two vans waited like chariots to hell. The banter on the shimmy over was jovial and carried the residue of the previous insults levied at the officer.

By the time everyone was inside the vehicle, I was only halfway across the asphalt. I don’t have a low tolerance for pain, nor am I prone to complaining, but the shackle was so tight that each step caused me to wince.

The officer who cuffed me was by the van and yelled for me to hurry. His partner walked to me. He attempted to lift the thin pant leg. The shackle was too tight for him to tug the material loose. The first guard told me to stop being a pussy, while the second gave me a discreet apology and loosened the iron.

The convicts talked loudly as the guard took count. When the officer slammed the van’s sliding door, everyone went silent as abruptly as if a mute button had been pressed.

The van rolled toward our new life. We were packed in. The air was stuffy. At least one person hadn’t showered in a while. No one spoke a single word, not even when we stopped for gas and many females were in view. This would normally cause an eruption of hoots, hollers, and one-liners, the most popular being the safe, “I’d hit that,” and the most annoying, yet utilized nearly as often, would be a man screaming his name from a police vehicles while wearing manacles and pleading for said female to write them.

I can’t imagine that has ever worked, and for once, no one tried.

The silence reflected the turmoil of thought taking place: what got us here, where we would end up, and what would happen once he reached prison.

I stared out the window at the houses as they went by. I imagined the types of people who lived in such a home, drove such a vehicle, or cared for their lawns in such a manner.

I know that my best chance at retaining sanity is to refrain from thinking about the future or dwelling on the past. I can’t envision the laughs with friends, the monetary loss, or the desolate wreckage that awaits me upon release. I must focus on today, hence this writing.

Quarantine is in Jackson State Prison. Twenty foot high fence topped with concertina wire started a mile before the entrance. Driving past the fence blurred and distorted the massive works of age old masonry behind it. Guard towers waited at the entrance.

Inside we are stripped naked, made to squat and cough, and then dressed exclusively in state blues. An I.D. is made. Tattoos are photographed. Hours pass between each step. Guys talk about their eighteen, their twenty, and their thirty-five year sentences as if they were points racked up in last night’s game. Perhaps flippancy is the only way to process such a looming future.

Once processed, we are lead into the heart of the prison. The inner compound starts with an outdoor yard that is surprisingly spacious, roughly an eighth of a mile squared. There is a white tent the size of hockey arena to one side, It resembles what might be erected during a pandemic. It is corralled by fence and concertina. The grass is mostly brown. There are twelve payphones and one drinking fountain with two spigots to serve the three hundred inmates allowed out at one time.

The quarantine building I’m assigned to lines the rear. It is fifty feet high, nearly three hundred yards long, and looks like something out of ‘Lord of the Rings.’ It’s even outfitted with slots to fire projectiles. I see a shadowy figure cross one. No one needs to tell me that he is equipped with something deadlier than a bow and quiver.

The building is old. As I approach, I’m humbled by its purpose, by the people who have slept there, and by the acts they have committed.

There are six yellow doors propped open at its base. They conjure images of a funhouse ride where once you enter, anything can pop out at you, and its eventual ending is unknown.

Inside, the building is perhaps thirty to feet deep. It’s dilapidated. The mustard-colored walls were perhaps once white, but are now flaked and stained from years of smoking, which is no longer allowed.

My cell is on the 4tth (top) tier where many men, inmate and guard alike, have flown to their death—some voluntary, but most not. The cell is an 8’x6’ and has a filthy cot, rusted storage locker, and a graffitied desk. The room is too small to do push-ups, regardless of how it’s configured. Though I would not do any even if I could—MRSA is a serious threat in this environment, and I’m hoping to keep my appendages.

The day is sweltering hot and drags like none before it.

There is only one rule in Two South: no talking!

So as I sit here in silence, I will thank you for listening and ask that you check on me tomorrow.

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Entry 2: Riding Out

At 6:30 am I am told to get ready to ride-out. I’ve been waiting so many days, perhaps years, to hear those words that I’m not nervous. I just want to get on with it.

I’m walked down a long white hall that I didn’t know existed and placed in a cell with men of a similar fate.

The paperwork processes us along as the guards shackle up that day’s load, which today was fifteen men. As we waited, some men boasted of previous visits, others recognized one another from time they’ve done together years ago. They asked each other how long they had been out, rather than what brought them back in. They talked about how they would never go back, long before we ever arrived.

As they shackled us, a large man started belittling an older, odd-looking officer. Unfortunately for me, the officer was shackling my ankle. He cranked it down as tight as it would go, making it painful to walk.

We moved to an underground parking lot. Two vans waited like chariots to hell. The banter on the shimmy over was jovial and carried the residue of the previous insults levied at the officer.

By the time everyone was inside the vehicle, I was only halfway across the asphalt. I don’t have a low tolerance for pain, nor am I prone to complaining, but the shackle was so tight that each step caused me to wince.

The officer who cuffed me was by the van and yelled for me to hurry. His partner walked to me. He attempted to lift the thin pant leg. The shackle was too tight for him to tug the material loose. The first guard told me to stop being a pussy, while the second gave me a discreet apology and loosened the iron.

The convicts talked loudly as the guard took count. When the officer slammed the van’s sliding door, everyone went silent as abruptly as if a mute button had been pressed.

The van rolled toward our new life. We were packed in. The air was stuffy. At least one person hadn’t showered in a while. No one spoke a single word, not even when we stopped for gas and many females were in view. This would normally cause an eruption of hoots, hollers, and one-liners, the most popular being the safe, “I’d hit that,” and the most annoying, yet utilized nearly as often, would be a man screaming his name from a police vehicles while wearing manacles and pleading for said female to write them.

I can’t imagine that has ever worked, and for once, no one tried.

The silence reflected the turmoil of thought taking place: what got us here, where we would end up, and what would happen once he reached prison.

I stared out the window at the houses as they went by. I imagined the types of people who lived in such a home, drove such a vehicle, or cared for their lawns in such a manner.

I know that my best chance at retaining sanity is to refrain from thinking about the future or dwelling on the past. I can’t envision the laughs with friends, the monetary loss, or the desolate wreckage that awaits me upon release. I must focus on today, hence this writing.

Quarantine is in Jackson State Prison. Twenty foot high fence topped with concertina wire started a mile before the entrance. Driving past the fence blurred and distorted the massive works of age old masonry behind it. Guard towers waited at the entrance.

Inside we are stripped naked, made to squat and cough, and then dressed exclusively in state blues. An I.D. is made. Tattoos are photographed. Hours pass between each step. Guys talk about their eighteen, their twenty, and their thirty-five year sentences as if they were points racked up in last night’s game. Perhaps flippancy is the only way to process such a looming future.

Once processed, we are lead into the heart of the prison. The inner compound starts with an outdoor yard that is surprisingly spacious, roughly an eighth of a mile squared. There is a white tent the size of hockey arena to one side, It resembles what might be erected during a pandemic. It is corralled by fence and concertina. The grass is mostly brown. There are twelve payphones and one drinking fountain with two spigots to serve the three hundred inmates allowed out at one time.

The quarantine building I’m assigned to lines the rear. It is fifty feet high, nearly three hundred yards long, and looks like something out of ‘Lord of the Rings.’ It’s even outfitted with slots to fire projectiles. I see a shadowy figure cross one. No one needs to tell me that he is equipped with something deadlier than a bow and quiver.

The building is old. As I approach, I’m humbled by its purpose, by the people who have slept there, and by the acts they have committed.

There are six yellow doors propped open at its base. They conjure images of a funhouse ride where once you enter, anything can pop out at you, and its eventual ending is unknown.

Inside, the building is perhaps thirty to feet deep. It’s dilapidated. The mustard-colored walls were perhaps once white, but are now flaked and stained from years of smoking, which is no longer allowed.

My cell is on the 4tth (top) tier where many men, inmate and guard alike, have flown to their death—some voluntary, but most not. The cell is an 8’x6’ and has a filthy cot, rusted storage locker, and a graffitied desk. The room is too small to do push-ups, regardless of how it’s configured. Though I would not do any even if I could—MRSA is a serious threat in this environment, and I’m hoping to keep my appendages.

The day is sweltering hot and drags like none before it.

There is only one rule in Two South: no talking!

So as I sit here in silence, I will thank you for listening and ask that you check on me tomorrow.

Entry 1: The man behind the number

What follows this introduction is a diary I wrote in prison. It was written anonymous to protect me while I was inside. I had hoped to keep it anonymous to continue protecting me. Maybe because I’m not doing as well as I had hoped, because I want to move past that part of my life and start new, but perhaps I have to own who I was to really move past my prison time (something I’ve yet to do).
My name is Kyle Skinner. I’ll attach all the social media links for those who want to see me. I did five years in prison for possession of a controlled substance and two, near back to back, DUIs (one was a super drunk). I grew up above poverty, but below middle class. During my stint of normality, I managed a multi-million dollar apartment complex. I married my girlfriend. I thought I had escaped much of what you will read about in the following diary. I had this image of my wife loving me and my kids being proud of the hard work I was putting in (no harder than others, but I was full of pride and convinced of my worth). 
Six months into the marriage, I came home and found an irate wife. She dressed me down in a way only someone who knows you can. Not only did she not love me, I made her sick. She didn’t want to be married. She didn’t want to raise kids or live in a house. She had a new boyfriend she’d been seeing for months. He pulled into the driveway during this exchange. He was my opposite in every way. He was a lot like the men I met in prison. He drove off with my wife and took away the fantasy life I believed in.
Fast forward and I’m dating a twenty year old coke dealer, drinking heavily, and dabbling in drugs. My old instincts are taking over. I think I drank to suppress that. I think I went to prison to avoid that.
I’ve been out a couple of years and I have no interest in crime, which is the greatest feeling in the world. I still love the people who hurt me and who want nothing to do with me, which weighs on me, but I respect their decision.
Typing these blog entries, written in prison, has unleashed a dormant motivation in me. I ask you to respect me enough to read one. Just read the first entry. If it affects you, register your email and stay with me. Prison is a unique world of loneliness and violence and mistreatment. I was tapped into something special while there. I’ve lost part of that but believe this blog can give it back to me. I believe if you will read one entry, we will connect. I believe that connection will work like a prayer and encourage me to get back in the game of life. I feel once I’m back in the game of life, I’ll be whole again. Thank you for this opportunity. I hope you enjoy.

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Entry 1: Prisoner X

I’ll call myself Prisoner X so that a maximum amount of people can relate to my tale. I’m in my 30s and headed to prison following a life of semi-organized crime. I don’t know how I feel about these decisions. It’s possible I’ve committed every crime on the books, besides the ones that get you 20+ years.
If this blog/diary gets any traction, I hope it can be used by inmate’s loved ones to have a better understanding of life inside. Whether that will provide relief or extra anxiety, I can’t say.
To ease your mind, people have committed far worse crimes than me, but very few have caused as much corruption. Writing this diary will be a way for me to come to terms with all of that out.
I don’t want to change. I like who I am. I’ve never met anyone I’d like hang out with more than a clone of myself, but my life is no longer mine, and after years in prison, it will never be the same.
I like to read. I always have. To avoid the madness and help me understand how I am where I am, I’ll write a daily entry of the chaos. To be fair, I can’t guarantee prison will be chaotic, as I’ve never been, but I’ve been asking around.
From what I hear, it’s a world of violence, deceit, cruelty, homosexuality, boredom, crooked guards, injustice, and solitude. Feel free to use whatever adjective you want to describe that.
I promise to stop writing if nothing of interest presents itself. So, if this is your first time checking on me or your nine-hundredth, I hope you’ll follow or Like or whatever it takes. I’ll keep the journal entries brief. I know you’re days are busy. I also know, they should be better than mine.

P.S. By prison standards, what I am doing is forbidden. I’ll be telling all that I see, much of it has the ability to earn me a thinkbutton, which is a permanent lump created when you catch a padlock-in-the-sock to the head; and if it’s prison faculty that I offend, it will be time in solitaire, or extra years on my sentence…so I would ask that you never confirm my identity. If you want to share the link, be my guest, but only if you find it entertaining or interesting. How can it not be? It’s smuggled from the epicenter of an unknown world.

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