Apr 9 2012
Really, all I really do is think, even though I’m not very good at it... I think too stinkin’ much for my brain to handle. Sometimes I think really hard about not thinking. I honed and sharpened my cogitation skills while sitting in jails and staring at walls. In prison, you’re stripped of so much of your identity that you’re always stuck mostly in your own thoughts. Possessions are minimal and don’t really mean shit in there anyways. In the real world, there is a glut of entertainment easily accessible to take us out of our heads, whereas in prison we’re forced to get crafty if we want to stay sane.
I asked some of my old jail friends what they thought about every night when they were alone in their heads, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Some were dudes with wives, who’re haunted by visions of their babydolls getting sodomized repeatedly, on film and probably for free, in dirty dank alleyways by gangs of girthy beefcakes. Some lucky ducks might just dream about hugging, rubbing, holding, kissing, and sweet-stroking a woman. But most of us think about passionful, angry, grubby buttfucking. Jailing often causes animosity between a man and a woman who’ve been unwillingly separated, and when that blessed union is re-united there’s bound to be some hardcore payback fucking from both ends.
One friend told me he used to just lay there and dream about all the chicks he dizzled over the years… Just go right down the line, flexing the bone, old crazy Kegel-dick, short clench, long clench, sphincter sqeeeeze, sweet release, and repeat. I’d say the majority of convicts go in with a girl and leave on the prowl for a new piece of butt. Some actually make realistic plans for success. A handful of fellas are set up nicely after prison and can put a felony or two behind them. Unfortunately, four outta ten cons end up back in prison three years later, so it’s clearly an uphill battle. If all you have time to do is fantasize about the future, you can imagine and you’re really goin’ to live a splendiferous existence. If things don’t pan out as planned, those daily dreams are crushed. With so much time in your own head, you begin to believe the lies you create because there’s not enough reality smackin’ you in the face.
Besides being deprived the physical loveliness of ladies, not being allowed to get high is a close second in terms of cruel and unusual punishments afflicted on us abused inmates. Damn near every day I wish I had a drink or could just sit back and get wacked by some powerful substance in the comfort of my own home. I used to tell everyone who’d listen that prisons should create honor blocks where obedient inmates can get a keg on the weekends. You give me that sort of incentive and I’ll be one obedient, boot-lickin’ inmate.
I think people who’re locked up develop an unnatural love of drugs because we’re denied for such long stretches that we just really, really wanna get lit. At any given time, in any jail in this country, some weed heads, dope fiends, and drunks are glorifying the good ole days and tellin’ tall tales about cold gettin’ dumb on Saturday night and hog-slapping some disreputable broad silly while she pretended to sleep. The biggest drug addicts in the world are locked up in New York and they spend every day and night thinkin’ about when they get out how there’re going to get that first hit.
Other guys might just read Plumpers porno every night and dream about the porky hookers they're gonna bag and the babies they're gonna plant in Fat Girl X and Chubby ButtPupp Y, but does it ever happen? What about the seasoned, obese, unattractive ex-cons? A bucketful of fantasies unfulfilled spill at will. If you’d ask me, all that pent-up frustration is a scary thought…
As for me, my thoughts were disproportionately occupied with my girl. I’ve been in jail before with no girlfriend and it’s true that time flies by in comparison ‘cause there are no worries or thought-consuming emotional longings. One jail-friend spent years maniacally disciplined and motivated to achieve greatness strictly through murderous hate for his ex who left him in jail. He used to stare at a picture of her when he lifted weights. He used her stupid face to motivate himself to be better and someday make her feel stupid for playing him. It’s easy to dream about how it’ll be, a picture-perfect reunion complete with rigorous bone-seshes around the clock. But that’s not always how it goes down, is it? I’ve been so blessed that the sweet pussy I dreamed about for two years straight still marinates on my girth, so maybe all that insatiable sexual fury and cock-flexing paid off.
It wasn’t all sex dreams. I got frustrated wondering who was going to hire me, if I’d have to go back to school, how was I going to attain super success within a year and do whatever the fuck I pleased… get married, make some babies, eat mad fuckin baklava, etc. I pretty much squelched all old desires of drug-dealing, fast money making, illegal activity living, sexy crack-ho bangin, cracker-dick slangin’, and I’m proud of that. But I wonder if I was back in that make money, fuck bitches era, would I be livin’ better than a motherfucker is right now? Those are some bad thoughts to think.
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