It is 10:00 PM, and I gave up the idea that Diet Coke alone would get me through the night, so I broke open my once-a-week treat, a 5 oz. bag of pepperoni slices. Actually this week I bought two bags. Since it is lockdown time, I cannot heat them up to remove some of the grease. I am having some cold hors d'oeuvres with a Saltine, a dollop of chili con queso (pasteurized process cheese spread with chilies, peppers, and spices), and a slice of the pepperoni. I think there are around 45-50 slices in the pack. As I munch, drink, and get sick as a dog, not to worry, the toilet is only two feet away and I am alone in my room. So I hope you appreciate my sacrifice. Like the one you will make trying to decipher this letter. I just heard the overture to the Barber of Seville. A lively piece to be sure, that makes one want to write faster. The strange "watermarks" on the page are some of the previously mentioned pepperoni grease.
Great, 2/3 of a page and my hand is tired. Bad hand. Work through the pain, feel the pain, use the pain. Hand responds, "FUCK YOU!" Pain is pain, and it all hurts. Hmm, maybe I should give you a cracker count. Each time I smear the cheese and place a pepperoni on a cracker and pop it in my mouth I should put a mark on the letter. Kind of like reading the letter while hearing "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" in the background. So the logo for the snack of the night will be (PCC), for, you guessed it: Pepperoni, Cheese, and Cracker. So (PCC) let us see where we go from here. Time to start a new page. Better use both sides, cut down on the postage, a stamp saved is... 37¢. The hell with the margins, just work with it Pete, use the space; feel the space (sense a recurring theme here).
I was thinking that if this actually works, this will be one of the longest letters since the days when I really did have nothing to do down in the county jail of North Carolina. I would send over ten pages at a clip to Karen. Too bad, you say, we do not have any copies of those for the archives. Yeah, well guess what, being the glutton for punishment that I am, and with the help of the US Government, I happen to have a 9x12 manila envelope full of the thirty days of letters written by me to her. How can this be you ask? I told you this might be long letter. (Even typing this, it still raises all kinds of emotions that are proof that I can still feel, but it is mostly pain at this point.) Well, before I got the final kiss-off from her, in a card I will/might/might not sure share with you at same point, even thinking of it now makes my eyes water and that will not be beneficial to getting this letter done. (Sigh) (Now Saturday, this still sucks to retype) So, back to the thirty day supply thing. (PCC)
So I was in the County Jail and had been sending a letter a day to Karen and never got any reply, till one day and a few after that, all thirty days worth of letters came back from the Post Office marked Return to Sender, Addressee Unknown. Damn, the tears. (Saturday as I retype, they are back now too.) So, that is certainly one of those really low, low, low, days. (PCC) Tell the stress level by the PCC, hmmm. I wonder if I should save a calorie or two and just smear some cheese on the pepperoni. Nah, the stomach could probably use the starch! So where is the point? I see back at the top of this page - long letter - scan back up the page and check where the damn train of thought is supposed to be. So this is easier than the Wheelwriter, now if it only came with a spell checker. It does you say, that hunk of clay between the ears -- Oh, that spell checker. Now I know we are doomed. That clay thing is doing the job of holding the headphones in place but anything else. (PCC)
Also need to break out another Diet Coke (PCC). Three pages, countless PCC’s, and I have not even really started yet. (PCC)
First, let us start with a premise gone wrong and then work on some specific parts. The premise I had was that a blog would be cool, anonymous, and a way to share some wit, intellectual points, and some general bullshit. It seems slightly ironic that the blog readers are asking for a lot more "proof" of who I am than they give of themselves. I thought I could convey "Hey, the why I am here is not important to the discussion since I am not at all ranting about innocence."
I sense that there are different types of readers of my blog. One is the ones who are sure I am the scum of the earth, and like to vent self-righteous stuff. Another, the ones I hoped to reach from the get go, are the ones who feel it is the job of the "State" to punish, and society's to deal with the person. But something has been building up and it is not just the blog. To me, it is tough to get into any of this stuff without going into the who, what, where, and when.
I do not have many contacts here (I do not want to use the word "friends") to have someone come up to me and say, hey, you know what so and so, told so and so, told him, etc. Picture if you will standing at a cocktail party and you have toilet paper hanging off the back of your pants. You only find this out when you get home and remove your jacket, take off your pants, and there as plain as day is the toilet paper. You clearly remember using the bathroom at the start of the party, so guess who spent the entire party looking like a real dork.
As a digression, one thing prison teaches you is how to be multi-faced; two-faced is not enough. One can hardly tell when or which "face" is the true self. Someone might be talking about not being able to wait till they get out and not have to deal with the niggers anymore, and in the next breath tell me to look out for a black guy because he is a good guy.