Thursday, October 28, 2004



It's a good thing Martha is keeping me updated with her prison diaries, or else I'd be worried for her safety:

Dear Friends,

Okay, I lied. The truth is things are a bit difficult for me here at Alderson. The other inmates keep calling me "Fresh Fish," referring to my status as a newly-interned, uninitiated inmate. They also call me "Cunt". I've never been called that before by a stranger and it's very disconcerting. I suppose it's sort of like sorority hazing and eventually they'll warm up to me. I have found the best remedy to this kind of aggression is to smile and offer a friendly outstretched hand. Right now I'm covered in spit. Prison spit is difficult to describe but it's not entirely pleasant. I do have to go right now. I will try to write as I'm able.
Thank you again for your support.


Martha Stewart

This reminds me briefly of a time when after escorting my drunk mother (two glasses of Burgundy and she's toast) back to my apartment this past spring. After my Mother's unrelenting hope that I'd someday marry my friend, David (who happens to be Jewish), and me professing to her that I had Jesus in my heart, Leslie, Rachel, and I sang her off to sleep with a lovely rendition of "This Little Light of Mine." We later stumbled across a girl sitting on third avenue in front of Pizza 33 slumped over sporting a rather stellar crack. At first we assumed this was our friend, Laura, and she hadn't quite made it home. But upon closer inspection (this being where I poked at her with my foot) I noticed this young woman was in need of some help. She could barely speak that she lived at 33rd and 3rd and when I tried to explain that we were in fact already there, she was most difficult at pulling further instructions from. I raised her to her feet and noticed that, at first what looked like some lovely passerby had juiced on her head, but indeed only spat the fattest wad they could muster. Lovely! Where were this girls friends for Gods sake (not that there hasn't been a time or two when all of us might have been guilty of the same, that cab driver just kept driving)?

I hobbeled her down 33rd making my way to what at best I assumed was her apartment. Leslie and Rachel hung back a few feet (perhaps they feared the white foamy spit she wore like a crown, but not I), and it was at this moment that she told me to hold up and proceeded to puke all over my shoes (I usually like to accept thank-yous in the form of cash, but bygones)! I finally found the apartment that I assume belonged to her and dropped her in the breezeway. She gave me a troglodite-like thank you before passing out on the lineoleum floor and my good duty for the year was over just like that...


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