My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

Sean Ahern, a junior in 1989, a few years before he wound up in the clink. Guess which one he is…

Mr. Ahern sent me a long letter about prison that I’m going to publish a bit at a time, since he hasn’t even finished telling the story.

Part One

“In the real world the drama is diluted, watered down, drawn out. Especially in prison. It’s a real world too and things move slow. There’s no script. No plot points. No leading lady…now of course the things you see on TV do happen. They just happen in real time with no commercials.

The drama comes. People get beaten, stabbed, extorted, raped, sometimes they overdose on drugs, commit suicide. You name it. You just don’t get to see it all. You’ll probably hear about it…lot’s of talking. There’s a story. A conflict. The beginning, the middle, the end. Drugs, money, alcohol. Sex. Always the same subject matter. It’s just like TV. Only takes longer.

I should start where it started for me. I’d gotten a new cell mate after spending a week alone in what was now dubbed “the masturbation mansion.” A title I’d earned after I spent most of that joyous week getting to know myself again.

I wasn’t thrilled when the new guy moved in. Skinny and frail he entered the cell. His property consisted of an abundance of medications that he proceeded to arrange on the top of his locker with slightly shaky hands. After I introduced myself, I left to give him a little space to get situated.

When I returned the new cell mate was squared away. The treatments to his maladies neatly arranged in rows on his locker, his clothes neatly folded on the shelf and there he sat reading from a neatly stacked pile of papers. Neat. Real neat.

“Oh,” he said, as he pushed his reading glasses back with his index finger. “Um, how’s it going?”

I told him that things were going “pretty great.” They weren’t though. I could already see this shop keeper had set up shop. The type who rarely left the cell.

I don’t get sick very often. Surprising since half of these fucking animals spit on the floor, shit on the phone, and suck the doorknobs. I guess my immune system has just built up a resistance to dirtbags who jerk off in their pants and then go around touching things.

Anyways, I’d rather suffer than deal with the medical department here. I’d seen people die here for no reason. Sick people get sicker and just waste away. Here one day and dead the next. I watched a guy die once because no one knew CPR. Well, I did, but he had a bunch of gross shit coming out of his mouth so I wasn’t about to do it.

to be continued…