My little black book of observations might be full but my cell is rapidly emptying. Today my cellmate left, taking his possessions with him save for his Playstation, which was sold for ten half-ounces of tobacco. Gone too are most of my possessions; my CDs, DVDs and guitar signed out to my girlfriend in advance of my liberation. Otherwise, in my haste to exit the jail tomorrow, I fear I may have jettisoned them altogether. Not all of the items that followed me into the prison will be coming home; some are to be left behind for the next generation of convicts to use and abuse. My best posters have already been claimed by cons calling shotgun; Green Day, Nirvana and ‘girlskissing’, a gallery of women kissing women. Were I more of a mercenary, I could have swapped them for chocolate bars, but avarice is anathema to me. Besides, having worked so hard to sculpt a decent set of abs, the last thing I want is to ruin them by overdosing on chocolate. What I lack in greed I more than make up for in vanity.
The hash leaf poster on the ceiling that doubles as a light shade will go to whichever toker is compus mentis enough to claim it. And the posters of scantily clad females will go to whoever’s got a pulse and the presence of mind to grab them. There is only one poster that my fellow cons will not be allowed to get their grubby paws on and that is the large portrait that hangs in the can. Every time I go to pee, the subject smiles at me approvingly as if to say ‘Nice package’ and I smile back, the trickle of urine becoming increasingly awry as an erection starts to form. Her name is Cristina Scabbia, vocalist in Lacuna Coil, and she is a veritable goddess. There are several posters of Cristina dotted around my cell, but this one is la crème de la crème. It is so large that when I stand close to it I feel like a hobbit, a very dirty hobbit tasked with standing on tiptoes and eating his gothic mistress out. The other guys aren’t worthy to look upon her and think unclean thoughts about her, and so Cristina is coming home with me. I have yet to agree with my own mistress where the poster shall be hung in the house, but I was thinking on the ceiling above the bed. That way, no matter how drunk and impotent I may be, I need only look heavenwards to invoke an instant rush of blood to the head. Who needs liquid Viagra when you’ve got a larger than life poster of Cristina Scabbia?
The storage units in my cell have also been bagsied, and no doubt my comfy mattress will likewise be appropriated before I have exited 3-5 for the last time. The cons are welcome to these commodities, for where I am going they will be of no use to me. I’ve enjoyed all of the places I’ve stayed in since leaving home at 19, each locus corresponding to a tranche of my life, but this is one residence I won’t be reminiscing over. There’s been some memorable times and some amusing times within these claustrophobic walls, but that doesn’t quite equate to good times.
Among the items bequeathed to the next occupant of cell 3-5 is the storage locker, its metal frame adorned with metal stickers that came free with Kerrang!; Metallica, Trivium and Slayer. These decals shall be my legacy, passed on in the hope of educating the next convict to occupy this undes res (undesirable residence; add it to your vocabulary and deploy it next time you’re dissing someone’s Seaton squat). My hope is that should the reprobate ever see the word ‘Slayer’ emblazoned on the back of some metalhead’s jacket, he will choose to bond with him, relating anecdotes of his time in the Slayer-stickered cell, rather than administer him a doing for being ‘one o thae goths.’ Also remaining in situ is my fruit sticker collection, 12 months of apple, banana, pear and mango consumption evinced by the hundreds of fruit stickers affixed to the underside of the bookshelf. Although not immediately apparent upon entering the cell, the moment the next occupant lies down on the bottom bunk, he can’t fail to notice – and be impressed by – my technicoloured flotilla of decals. As signatures go, it’s certainly original, although not as original as the calling card left by one former resident, who graffitied the following cheery message on the wall: ‘I was here and your not now you are here and im not have a nice time’ [sic]. I was going to append a rejoinder before realising that I couldn’t top such grammatical and comedic excellence.
As with moving out of any dwelling, the room appears to grow in size as it is denuded of furniture and clutter. Of course there is only so much a 12 x 8 cell can expand by, although I did recently discover an ingenious way to maximise the limited space. And best of all, it didn’t require rearranging the furniture, most of which was intransigently bolted to the floor in any case. All it took was a different perspective. Last week, while doing sit-ups, I found that if you lie on the floor and stare up at the arched ceiling, the place becomes veritably cavernous. If I were a cockroach, or any one of a number of beasties that cohabits my cell, I would never feel claustrophobic. As I scuttled across the floor, looking for female roaches to hump (or whatever the scientific name is for insect procreation) I would never tire of my hunting ground. From my low perspective, the ceiling may as well be on the other side of the galaxy. Had I learned this sooner, I would have taken my mattress off the top bunk long ago and served out my sentence on the floor, gazing in wonderment at the arched ceiling high above me. With my time here almost at an end however, that task shall have to be entrusted to my successor. No doubt they will be only too happy to lie on the floor, gouched out of their face, absorbing the awe-inspiring wonder of the featureless white bricks overhead. Even the emptiest of cells seem amazing with a head full of heroin.
The hash leaf poster on the ceiling that doubles as a light shade will go to whichever toker is compus mentis enough to claim it. And the posters of scantily clad females will go to whoever’s got a pulse and the presence of mind to grab them. There is only one poster that my fellow cons will not be allowed to get their grubby paws on and that is the large portrait that hangs in the can. Every time I go to pee, the subject smiles at me approvingly as if to say ‘Nice package’ and I smile back, the trickle of urine becoming increasingly awry as an erection starts to form. Her name is Cristina Scabbia, vocalist in Lacuna Coil, and she is a veritable goddess. There are several posters of Cristina dotted around my cell, but this one is la crème de la crème. It is so large that when I stand close to it I feel like a hobbit, a very dirty hobbit tasked with standing on tiptoes and eating his gothic mistress out. The other guys aren’t worthy to look upon her and think unclean thoughts about her, and so Cristina is coming home with me. I have yet to agree with my own mistress where the poster shall be hung in the house, but I was thinking on the ceiling above the bed. That way, no matter how drunk and impotent I may be, I need only look heavenwards to invoke an instant rush of blood to the head. Who needs liquid Viagra when you’ve got a larger than life poster of Cristina Scabbia?
The storage units in my cell have also been bagsied, and no doubt my comfy mattress will likewise be appropriated before I have exited 3-5 for the last time. The cons are welcome to these commodities, for where I am going they will be of no use to me. I’ve enjoyed all of the places I’ve stayed in since leaving home at 19, each locus corresponding to a tranche of my life, but this is one residence I won’t be reminiscing over. There’s been some memorable times and some amusing times within these claustrophobic walls, but that doesn’t quite equate to good times.
Among the items bequeathed to the next occupant of cell 3-5 is the storage locker, its metal frame adorned with metal stickers that came free with Kerrang!; Metallica, Trivium and Slayer. These decals shall be my legacy, passed on in the hope of educating the next convict to occupy this undes res (undesirable residence; add it to your vocabulary and deploy it next time you’re dissing someone’s Seaton squat). My hope is that should the reprobate ever see the word ‘Slayer’ emblazoned on the back of some metalhead’s jacket, he will choose to bond with him, relating anecdotes of his time in the Slayer-stickered cell, rather than administer him a doing for being ‘one o thae goths.’ Also remaining in situ is my fruit sticker collection, 12 months of apple, banana, pear and mango consumption evinced by the hundreds of fruit stickers affixed to the underside of the bookshelf. Although not immediately apparent upon entering the cell, the moment the next occupant lies down on the bottom bunk, he can’t fail to notice – and be impressed by – my technicoloured flotilla of decals. As signatures go, it’s certainly original, although not as original as the calling card left by one former resident, who graffitied the following cheery message on the wall: ‘I was here and your not now you are here and im not have a nice time’ [sic]. I was going to append a rejoinder before realising that I couldn’t top such grammatical and comedic excellence.
As with moving out of any dwelling, the room appears to grow in size as it is denuded of furniture and clutter. Of course there is only so much a 12 x 8 cell can expand by, although I did recently discover an ingenious way to maximise the limited space. And best of all, it didn’t require rearranging the furniture, most of which was intransigently bolted to the floor in any case. All it took was a different perspective. Last week, while doing sit-ups, I found that if you lie on the floor and stare up at the arched ceiling, the place becomes veritably cavernous. If I were a cockroach, or any one of a number of beasties that cohabits my cell, I would never feel claustrophobic. As I scuttled across the floor, looking for female roaches to hump (or whatever the scientific name is for insect procreation) I would never tire of my hunting ground. From my low perspective, the ceiling may as well be on the other side of the galaxy. Had I learned this sooner, I would have taken my mattress off the top bunk long ago and served out my sentence on the floor, gazing in wonderment at the arched ceiling high above me. With my time here almost at an end however, that task shall have to be entrusted to my successor. No doubt they will be only too happy to lie on the floor, gouched out of their face, absorbing the awe-inspiring wonder of the featureless white bricks overhead. Even the emptiest of cells seem amazing with a head full of heroin.
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