These Walls Are Funny

I got locked up the other night. I'm a hardened criminal now. A thug. A hoodlum. Ruffian. Scoundrel if you will. What did I do you ask to be afforded the luxury a full lipped officer V. Hernandez to slap some cuffs on me, pat me down and read me my rights? The unthinkable. The inconceivable. The despicable indeed. You see I had the audacity to drive home, unbeknownst to me with a broken tail light and an 8th of weed (that part was beknownst).

And you know, as I sit here and write about it, I want to get into it, I do. But the details coagulate in my mouth like a filthy paste and my fingers quiver to translate. The worst part wasn't the stale bread, oily peanut butter and dry oranges they called food, it wasn't the shit-smelling foulness that emanated from the other inmates around me and it wasn't the angry lesbian deputy demanding my country of origin from the core of her life long penis envy. No. That shit I've dealt with before and handled with ease.

No. The worst part was that for all the years I've fantasized about it, for all the times I've practiced in the mirror for this one opportunity to floss the smile for that special photographer, my mugshot wasn't nearly as fabulous as it should have been.