Dear loyal readers and children of all ages,
Wait, this letter may not be appropriate for children. Scratch that. No, seriously, scratch that… lower, I can’t reach it.
Dear Loyal Readers,
I write this letter to you from the library of the Missouri state prison where the cell walls are decorated with pin-ups of Casey Anthony. Normally they wouldn’t let an inmate have access to a computer but the ones they consider to have “special needs” are guaranteed this privilege. They determined that I had special needs because of my confidence in the fact that I believe I am Amelia Earhart. Often times to make sure I get the computer, I zip around the commons with my arms outstretched and a hefty amount of the one-ply toilet paper they give us wrapped around my head like a bomber helmet, yelling “ZOOOOOOOM!” My dignity is a small price to pay for this privilege.
In case you’re wondering how I landed in the joint (that’s prison talk for jail. You learn these terms fast. You also learn to always have massive amounts of ciggies as they are good for bartering and making sure that you are not owned by anyone). I will not lie to you and say that I am innocent of the crime I am charged with, for I am not.
On August 3rd, I was arrested and convicted of jayriding. I crossed Devonshire road on my tricycle (Stop judging me. It’s hard to balance on two wheels while holding a pint and trying to play harmonica) without using the cross walk. I also zipped across the road when it said “Do not walk” (which I wasn’t, I was riding the tricycle. Semantics.) because that’s just the kind of rebel I am. It didn’t help my case that I was wearing a vinyl Fonzie Halloween costume complete with plastic mask. (I kept it since I was in first grade. I’m petite for my age, what can I say?) I thought I could get out of my predicament by pointing out to the arresting officer that TECHNICALLY I wasn’t jay “walking” but apparently it was that semantic argument that made him decide to throw the book at me. Seriously he took his little book of tickets and hurled it at my noggin. All I said was “Look, you little man, I have never in my life seen such a power tripping security guard wannabe let so little power go to his piggy head!”
This may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Off I was taken in handcuffs and ankle shackles to prison while the media went nuts snapping pictures of me. Wait. That might not have been me. That might have been Paris Hilton…Yeah it was. Sorry for the mistake.
Once I was strip searched and had a body cavity search (which from what I had always heard was not pleasant for either party involved and I now concur.) I was given my prison garb (luckily I got the orange jumpsuit instead of the stripes because I just don’t look good in stripes) and sent off to my cell with no supper.
The first few days were not too bad but then the Cheetos incident occurred only to be followed by what I henceforth will refer to as the Hostess Strawberry Pie fiasco. I fought hard for that pie and was able to distract the inmates by pointing out the new inmate, Sara Lee. I was not as popular with the ladies because hey, nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee. And like her they did.
I spend most of my time in the arts and crafts room making key chains, leather wallets and Foreman Grill Cozies. I’m also reading “So You Want To Learn To Make Shivs Out of Soap” in my quiet time.
I’m trying to keep a positive outlook but then the memories of past Christmas’ and the holidays yet to come flood into my memory like…a flood. I know now I won’t be home to eat Aunt Wilhemina’s Jello salad, the one that she always makes and leaves on the hood of the car and her cat walks through it with litter box sand-covered feet and she debates (every year, God bless her cat-loving soul) whether or not to bring it but just smears it around to cover up the cat tracks. It’s always gritty but deliciously lime flavored with mini marshmallows throughout.
I’ll also miss Grandpa’s telling of stories of fighting in the Civil War with General Patton and Elvis Costello (Grandpa is kind of losing it but we just let him live in his world) while Grandma Beth always tries to get all of the grandkids to “pull her finger.”
I’ll always picture Little Trigger Sue and Sipsy Matthew (The twins had their middle names mixed up at birth because their mother, my cousin, Gypsy Piffle was a paste eater most of her life.) running through the sprinklers in their underwear (they share one pair) even though it’s three below zero and trying to go belly first on the Slip and Slide in the backyard for a while before they come running into the house screaming that their stomachs hurt. (We go through this every year, they think they can slip and slide when it’s three below but every year their little bellies get stuck to the plastic, like an outstretched tongue sticking to a metal pole, and every year Gypsy looks up from her paste and sends them to Grandma Beth for first aid. The twins are forty-two now, you would think they had learned that they can’t slip nor slde when it’ s this cold.)
These memories will always be with me and I look to the future in hopes that I too may be home by the next Thanksgiving but it’s looking bleak for me, what with this past week’s Chef Boyardee incident. I love Uncle Joseph’s (He’s not our real uncle, He’s Uncle Frank’s “Roommate”) Gummy Bear fruitcake (He thinks substituting Gummy Bears for candied fruit will go unnoticed and he can save a buck) and will hopefully be there to enjoy it.
Until then, please know that I miss and love you all and enjoy getting the care packages that NONE OF YOU HAVE BEEN SENDING.
Not bitter at all,
P.S. Please don’t send a cake with a file in it. That will get me an extra six months and I’m hoping to be home for Grandma Beth’s opportunity to defend her title in the Miss Toots-A-Lot pageant.
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