I’m always ready for prison and death because I’ve been there too many times and I’ve seen to many people getting beat,robbed, set up and even killed around me. Nothing hurt me more than the disappearance of my father. I don’t want to get into the full detail , but I will say this, once he died, life felt completely naked. I don’t communicate with his side of the family at all or my birth mothers side, so I’m just basically naked every day in every way.
I keep a huge stash of white underwear, white socks, and white bras because in most cases, they are allowed into the prison, and I would hate to be stuck in there wearing dirty draws that I have to wash by hand everyday in the sink where I have to cook my meals and wash my hands and spork too. That’s pretty muderous. I probably would have cash on me to be deposited into my books soon I get to booking, but if I have drugs on me then I can forget it. It won’t go to commissary, it gets seized.
Moving along, I use the solitary confinement as a source of survival because the pod is filthy. Rapist, pedophiles, sickos, weirdos,creeps and fake high class prostitutes all roam in one big awful housing area. The smell of the bologna cooking in the microwave for breakfast, lunch and dinner is horrific. The sight of s.o.s and homemade prison “swoles” (which are basically just bowls of ramen noodles topped with melted Cheetos and various prepackaged meats sold on canteen) eaten every day indefinitely ,is a disgusting sight to see. You see that , amongst other numerous despicable Hollywood type action that can turn deadly in an instant.
Being in solitary confinement felt like a very poor situation. Soon I entered the cell I knew I was there. I couldn’t believe I had really become that poor. I made a few phone calls. On two occasions I was rescued by making bond. On the other occasions I was not and I felt like I was going to literally be in there forever. It was a scary hellish experience sitting in that tiny cell for 23 hours a day only getting one hour of sunlight , which I used to play basketball on the yard. I didn’t kick anyone’s ass on the court, because all the little females pretending to be tough , were too pussy to play. I also spent that time writing in my journal about what I would do when I get out, none of which amounted to anything but it was something to pass the time.
The food on the trays were edible but it is not something to get used to. It is always something to look forward to, but having commissary would be better. There usually isn’t any commissary allowed in “the box” so I deal with my problems head on. I’m not a pussy so I just thug it out. Living life on the edge is not an easy thing to do, and without La Santisima Muerte, I would not be able to do it at all.