Notes From Jail II: Introspection

The following is a continuation of notes I composed to another while wrongfully imprisoned recently:

"Serenity, beauty, and freedom. It only took me 42 years to find all of these things."

To do drugs here, the inmates on occasion swallow ballons containing such drugs, and these drugs are, well, retrieved, at a later time. To smoke pot, the inmate wraps the pot in bible paper. Cigarettes can and have been placed directly into the rectum- just so you know. Of course, aside from coffee, I've done no other drugs while in jail.

Having sex with my ex wife was like trying constantly to copulate with death. I attempted to reproduce with progressive atrophy through amplified apoptosis, so it seems.

It's Thursday, and it is very rainy outside here now. It is very pretty watching this rain fall over the Mississippi river.

I've been in jail for exactly one month today. And I'm so ready to get the fuck out of here.

This is my all time nadir, I think. you are in fact the elixer of my present state- you are the panacea for removing my ego and confidence from the pergatory of their present residence in the trancendal intensive care unit. It was kismet when our mutual friend Ryan drove me to Marietta, where I met you for the first time.

The inmates watch, "Jerry Springer" on TV before lunch here in jail. What a dumb-ass show. Our society is clearly warped. It's quite sad.

Just got your letter from Monday. I'm fighting this restraining order against me by being in jail right now. My love for Hayley continues to fuel me.

With the letters I write to Hayley, I send them to Molly's parent's house. I do not have an address directly for Hayley now. Molly's parents are wonderful people, and will likely insist that Hayley read what I write her. And it is also likely her mother is opposed to this, but fuck her, quite frankly.

The words I read from Hayley here- they are great. There is energy, joy and happiness in the words Hayley writes to me now. This bond I now have resurrected between Hayley and I was against all odds.

I fucking did it, Jacki. Not too many 11 year old children from similiar situations would be able to express such joy generated from their father. I'm glad I created and allowed this to occur.

I'm homeless at the age of 43. I was very much middle class just a few years ago. The trip from a limosine to a ditch is a very short trip.

Thanks for knowing and acknowledging that I care about you. And thanks for forgiving me when I have shared words with you that I did not mean.

I can always get in the mood to write, but the writing is always much more exploratory when I'm altered, as the case here in jail. It's like drunk-dialing, in a way.

Keep writing me, Jacki. I love your words.