Pen Pals

A Trip Down Memory Row

By Bert Burykill

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Ever since I was a little kid I have loved three things: alcohol, girls, and music. By the time I turned 13 I realized I needed money to get those things, and alcohol quickly became one of a number of substances I was abusing. There were only so many lawns I could mow to support my habits, so I decided to start selling weed to make some extra cash. I was taking so much acid around this time that I forgot the whole purpose of life is to stick dicks in vaginas, so all I needed money for was drugs and music. I really didn't think about shit in high school other than drugs and music.

Once I stopped the hallucinogens in college my balls got thirstier, so I needed cash for girls too. I really wanted an impressive sound system, so drugs bought that. Then I wanted a nice vacation. Pretty soon I was addicted to making a couple thousand dollars a week and partying hard, sniffing that shit up. I could easily justify sniffing a gram when I had a few ounces on me. People told me I would get in trouble and that police were following me around, but I didn't pay attention. I made poor decisions and basically begged to get caught. I was greedy, impatient, and most of all half-retarded. I had a messload of fun, though. Maybe I'm addicted to fun? Maybe fun affected my judgment? I can only fantasize about how my life would have turned out with a couple of smarter moves. Who knows? My only excuse is that life seemed dull and I tried to spice it up. I don't feel bad about my so-called crime. Selling drugs isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. The fact that I've been locked up for six years 'cause of a little coke blows my mind. It's not right, but it's my fault.

Hopefully I can direct my energy elsewhere now. I think photography could be a good outlet. Or maybe rock climbing. Sometimes it's hard to convince myself that anything exists other than getting high, listening to music, and bathing in pussy. If I could do that stuff for free I wouldn't have sold drugs. I might be dead, though.

I know now that I can forge a kind of fun-like path without selling drugs. If I want to be a scumbag I can just dabble in pornography and sling dick to horny mature women named Ethel, Eartha, Beth, and Josephine. That doesn't sound too hard, or even that awful. Last I checked, "the man" won't send me to jail for banging old broads. My girlfriend informed me that she is A-OK with being my pimp. There is no shame in securing a few sugar mamas. I need to find a nice website with older, mature women who have social security checks to burn. As long as I can get the drugs away from me I should be able to stay out of jail. All sorts of people are getting paid beaucoup bucks for doing dumb—but legal—stuff on the computer these days.

I know I'm not going to go out there after six years in stupid prison and turn into Mainstreet Marty. I’m not going to be working on building my financial portfolio, ironing slacks, eating Hamburger Helper, and getting blowjobs from the secretaries. But if I make it to 40 then I guess anything is possible. I'm going to be a physical fitness trainer/escort/rock climber/porno guy. I should get enough thrills and money from that stuff to stay away from the drugs, so I'm feeling pretty psyched about the future. I also want to start making babies willy-nilly. That will help me stay out of jail. Definitely.


Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of a guy serving time in a medium-security prison in upstate New York for drug possession. We don’t want to get more specific than that, because apparently the prison doesn’t look kindly on its inmates publishing anything negative about incarceration.

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