#drawings that violate the Geneva Conventions but I don’t give a shit

[ozcarr]

You ever get really bored and just make up a little group of campy sci-fi guys for funzies?

Anyway, give it up for the crew of Star Cruiser 99. I made up extensive lore for them between work calls, under the cut.

When the entire captain’s annex mysteriously broke off vacation liner Star Cruiser 99, several randomly assigned emergency away teams were sent out do a perimeter of the area, one of which was headed by security officer Gillian Vega. Vega’s team strays a little too far from the 99’s charted path while exploring separated annex debris and ends up encountering some sort of space anomaly or wormhole because it’s a genre staple! They lose contact and tracking on their mothership, but find evidence of an escape pod launch from captains annex and are lead to believe the captain may be close, so they decide to continue their recovery mission — but now they’re stuck in uncharted space, the trail is running cold, and they have no way home.

Vega is smart and good at her job… but just transferred from a very human-majority quadrant of the galaxy and is still experiencing an adjustment period. She dreams of captaining her own explatory space vessel one day and thinks being the leader of the away team that recovers the captain of the 99 would fast-track her career. But as the days turn into weeks, she finds herself really growing into her small-crew-acting-captian position. And she starts to sort of hope that they don't find the captain. Which makes her feel really guilty. Which distracts her from the rest of the crew’s weird dynamics. It's a whole thing.

Nobody really gets Thomas from the security team and that's okay! He doesnt mind really. He's telepathic so he can read everyone's thoughts (excluding Killgore), but he doesn't usually comment on other people's internal monologs. Really good listener. He knows something is going on between Phoebe and Kurzweil but there’s inconsistencies in their memories and Thomas can’t really get a read what their relationship is.

Phoebe V ("V" is pronounced "Five") is an engineer and was really popular on the 99 before The Incident. She's always fiending for gossip, an has been trying to get closer to Thomas (everyone assumes it’s because she assumes he has dirt on everyone, but is it about something else?) Now that she's been stuck in close proximity with the same 4 people for weeks... she's going a little stir-crazy and everyone can tell.

Doctor Killgore is almost cartoonishly evil and nobody except Vega seems to picking up on it. He's always saying bond villain type shit, and Vega's always like "guys I think Killgore might actually be dangerous." And everyone else just brushes it off like "he's obviously joking about killing us! What, you don't think he's capable of humor or something? Wow Vega, examine your biases..."

Killgore doesn't talk about his life before the 99 which leaves Vega with a lot of questions, namely "w...why is he called that", "why would a medical droid look like that", and "who's vitals are being displayed on that heart monitor?"

Kurzweil works in passenger services and was hired at a Starbase recruitment fair 2 weeks before The Incident. He only volunteered for the away mission in hopes it would earn him some respect among his peers. Even before the mission, he was prone to accidents and he keeps putting himself in dangerous situations which almost always end in head trauma — much to Killgore's thinly-veiled delight.

His species must be extremely resilient because he's always able to walk it off after an hour of downtime in the shuttle's back medical room (albeit with some memory loss). His accidents are seemingly random but now Vega is starting to notice patterns and is beginning to think something nefarious is afoot, whether Kurzweil knows it or not.

I don’t want to fully elaborate what’s going on because… I’m starting to think this would make a fun little mystery visual novel. But I don’t currently have the skills or patience to pull that off. So I’ll just throw this on the back burner to simmer while I decide if perusing it’s worth the effort haha.

#drawings that violate the Geneva Conventions but I don’t give a shit #a lot of them are named after/loosely based on songs but I will not elaborate further #oc #character design #scifi #alien #robot #Star cruiser 99 #my art

[insomniamamma]

Late Bloomers: Ezra x F! Reader w/Cee

A/n: Set in the "Liminal" AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's legal guardian after a car accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Set sometime between "Ferris  Wheels Are For Old People" and "Surf City Goodness." Reader is Ezra's neighbor. Established relationship (sort of, IDK how to tag what they are). For @autumnleaves1991-blog​ and @clydesducktape​ Writer Wednesday.

Warnings: Not a whole lot. Kissing. Touching. A little spicier than I usually go, which isn't saying whole lot. A little language.  Cee, as usual, needs her own warning. Set during the pandemic shut down. Mentions of covid. Also, I feel like 'The Apple' needs it's own warning. I'll link the trailer at the end.

           "You sure you don't want to come with us, Birdie?" Cee sits at their scarred kitchen table, her laptop, textbooks and a pile of papers around her. She frowns.           "I gotta study," she says, "Ms Stewart is really serious about this quiz. She's not grading on a curve this time." Ezra narrows his eyes.           "You have never spent a Saturday night studying in your life," he says. Cee frowns up at him.           "You've never been in Ms. Stewart's physics class," says Cee, "She's a hard ass. Anyway, I'm still pulling an 'A' in her class, but I don't want to fuck up my average."           "Jesus, Cee," Ezra mutters, and you have to smile. She rolls her eyes.           "I know, I know--"           "Don't say 'fuck' at school," they say in unison.           "They're doing double features all summer," says Cee, "I can miss one. I've seen all these movies anyway." She smirks, "I want to hear what you think of 'The Apple.'" Ezra rummages around for his keys and Cee drops you the most exaggerated wink you've ever seen in your life.           "Have fun, guys," she says.

         Covid has nuked most of the things you used to do for fun, restaurants and shows, hell, even the libraries are closed. The only business in town that's thriving is the Star-City Drive In. There haven't been any big studio releases in a while, so they've been doing Fright Night Fridays and Sci-Fi Saturdays. Tonight's double feature is Flash Gordon and The Apple.          "They've got this weird way of operating the concession stand now," says Ezra, "Cause of the pandemic. You've gotta text them your order and I guess they bring it out to you--" Ezra's gotten pretty good at working his phone one-handed, but you can see the frustration clouding his face.          "Let me," you say, loading the menu onto your phone, "Let's get a big popcorn and share it. You okay with the fake butter?"          "Of course I'm okay with the fake butter, what kind of monster do you take me for?"          "How about candy?" You ask, scrolling through, "It's the usual suspects."          "Sno-caps," he says, "How about you?"          "I'm thinking Milk Duds," you say.          "Now that is an excellent way to lose a filling, Sunshine."          "Popcorn and Milk Duds together? Worth the risk," you say and text your order off to the concession stand. It's not quite dark yet, a reel of movie trivia that no one cares about shines ghost pale on the screen. Ez has got the radio tuned to pick up the sound, but there's not much to listen to yet so it's turned down low, background noise with the cicadas and birdsong. The big screen backs up against a farmer's field run wild and a dark stand of trees.          "Switch places with me," says Ezra, and gets out of the truck. He comes around to your side and opens the door for you.          "Why?"          "Indulge me," says Ezra, so you do as he asks and settle in to the driver's side. Ezra's truck has bench seats with vinyl that creaks and cushions that hiss slightly as you move around. There's a tap at the window and you hook your mask over your ears and crank it down, popcorn and candy and you already payed with your phone, but press some rumpled bills into their gloved hands.          "Why'd you want to switch places?" You ask around a mouthful of popcorn.          "Shhh," says Ezra, "The movie's starting."

         Flash Gordon is just as fun as you remember it being, majestic in its absurdity, a big love letter to all the terrible pulp sci-fi movies that came before, the two of you watch and snark and laugh and sing "Aaa-ahhh" whenever someone says Flash's name. We owe it to Queen, you say, and Ezra smiles big the way he does when something's caught him off guard, the way that crinkles his eyes and reveals his dimples, indeed we do. We owe it to Freddie Mercury.          At some point his arm finds it's way around your shoulders and you lean into him.          "So this is why you wanted to switch spots," you murmur. He raises his prosthetic arm, flickering movie light shining on the double hook at the end.          "Can't exactly get handsy with Mr. Claw, now can I?" He grins, "These hooks might be a little chilly."          "And pokey," you say, demonstrating with a dig to his ribs. The end credits are rolling.          "You ever seen this next movie?"          "The Apple?" He says, "No. Some sort of cult-movie thing. Cee made me promise not to IMDB it. She said I should go in with an open mind."          "Oh boy," you laugh.          "Right? Cee's tastes are all over the place. I suspect this will be either amazing  or terrible on a scale that recalibrates our internal gauge of what terrible is."          "You know she set us up, right?"          "Yeah," says Ezra, "Little Bird fancies herself quite the matchmaker."          "She winked at me." Ezra dimples.          "Did she now?"          "She looked like a cartoon," you laugh, "About as subtle as a ton of bricks." Ezra brays laughter and leans against you, squeezes you closer to him at the same time. He is beautiful when he laughs, all dimples and teeth eyes screwed shut in mirth and you take this opportunity to press a kiss against that tender place on his jaw where his beard refuses to grow. Ezra freezes, you feel his body go rigid against yours, and your first thought is to apologize, to pull back, and then he reaches for you, his broad, calloused palm cradling your face, drawing you to him, presses his lips to yours, a soft, reverent kiss that he does not fully withdraw from, his hand now resting on the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to yours, somehow more intimate than a kiss, this closeness, breathing each others exhalations, leaning against each other.          "Cee's not wrong," you say, "We're good together."          "We are, aren't we?" He gives your nape a gentle squeeze, and lets you go. The opening titles of The Apple flicker on screen and the music starts up.

         "Oh, Ezra, what the fuck did we just watch?"          "I don't know if 'watch' is the right word, Sunshine, we did not 'watch' The Apple. The Apple happened to us."          "I don't think I've ever understood Stockholm syndrome until now."          "I have been assaulted," says Ezra, "My civil rights have been violated."          "It's like..." You trail off, "It's like if someone took '1984', 'A Star Is Born' and 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show' and put them in a blender. I'm pretty sure this movie violates the Geneva conventions." Ezra laughs and so do you, leaning in to each other, giggles that become kisses, soft at first, but increasingly hungry, laced with need, your arms twine around his shoulders, his hand lingers at your side, toying with the hem of your shirt.          "S'okay, Ez," you say as he nips at your jaw and then your neck, gentle graze of teeth that makes you shiver, "You can touch me." He kisses you deep, his tongue fever-hot against yours, hand sliding up the soft slope of your belly, cupping your breast, and you arch into his touch--          Tap Tap Tap. And there's a bright light shining through the passenger's side window.          "Oh shit," says Ezra. You frantically yank your shirt back down, heat creeping up your neck, your cheeks, your earlobes flaming.          "Movie's over guys," says the shadowed figure behind the flashlight's glare, "Take it someplace else." You open the door to switch places back with Ezra, the overhead light shows him red faced and horrified.          "I'm sorry, I just--"          "Get us out of here, Ez."

         You stare out into the dark past the window, half-moon shining over fields and trees like a lazy eye. You snort laughter.          "What's so funny?"          "We got caught," you say, "We got caught necking at the drive-in like a couple of teenagers."          "You're laughing because we got caught?"          "I'm laughing because I've never made out with anyone at a drive-in, even when I was a teenager, and I'm laughing cause we got caught. After watching that trash-fire of a movie. We got caught making out over the end credits of 'The Apple'. I feel like we deserve some kind of award." You rest your hand on Ezra's leg, can just pick his smile in the dim lights from the dash. Ezra chuckles.          "I never made out with anyone at the drive in before tonight either," says Ezra.          "Bullshit," you say, and give him a good-natured poke.          "It's true," he says, "For one, I didn't have access to a car. I would've had to borrow Ma's car, and there was no way that was ever going to happen. Also, I was not what the girls back then referred to as 'dating material'. Skinny as a rake with a mouthful of braces and an obvious birthmark? I was like a puppy trying to grow into it's ears and feet, a late bloomer if you will." You move your hand higher up along his thigh and give him a squeeze.          "Better late than never."          "Indeed."

Flash Gordon Trailer

The Apple Trailer

#writer wednesday #ezra x f!reader #ezra prospect x f!reader #ezra (prospect) x f!reader #ezra and cee

[notesfromthepen]

The Michigan Squeeze Play

This is what a Michigan Department Of Corrections (MDOC) squeeze play looks like...

It's all about the money. It always is. Prison is no exception. After you've lost it all, physically, mentally, spiritually, stripped bare in every sense of the word, from family to freedom, just when you think there's nothing left to take, they go after the money; yes, even if you don't have any.

Before the gavel has fallen, the calculations are already underway. One of the very first pieces of paperwork you will receive, after sentencing, is a bill.

The moment you're locked up you have an account balance; plus or negative, black or red, blessed or fucked.

In a perfect world you'd start with a balance of 0$; an "unlocked" account, where the hard-earned money deposited in your account by friends and family isn't taxed at astronomical rates—but as we all know by now, the world is anything but perfect.

Initially, there are two billable items every inmate worries about after sentencing: restitution and court costs. Both are tabulated by a seemingly unchecked, rather arbitrary, internal system of shady, unverifiable, mathematics. Mysterious numbers and randomly placed commas. These two balances hang heavy in determining the type of prison bid you have in store.

The brain-trust in Lansing somehow decided, decades ago, that $50 is the magic number that an inmate needs per month to meet all of our institutional needs; an immovable number in the face of inflation, with lower wages, and the ever-increasing prices of store items.

If the court has imposed either of these fees upon you, either restitution or court costs, as long as it's only one, anything deposited in your account over your first $50 will be taxed at a rate of 50%.

So if, on the 1st of the month, you get a $100 deposit, you will receive $75 in your account. If on the 2nd you get another $100, you will receive $50.

If the judge has decided you owe BOTH, restitution and court costs, anything over your allotted $50 is taxed at %100. Making it impossible to get any more than $50 a month.

I know that this might seem like one of those "boo hoo, cry me a river you fucking deviant of an inmate" scenarios. Well, let me explain why that's not exactly a fair response.

So let's break it down. If you were to have both fees imposed—yes even if, as in my case, you were blindsided by outrageous court costs, even though you qualified as indigent and provided a PUBLIC DEFENDER, even if you took a guilty plea so that a trial NEVER took place, and they still slapped you with a $6,000+ fee for court costs, as well as an $8,000+ fee for restitution, you could never get more than $50 a month, until your outstanding debt is brought down to $0.

$14,000 or a MILLION; at a certain point it's all the same when you're living hand to mouth.

If you do the math on the monthly $50 I get, that comes out to a budget of exactly $12.50 a week.

It might not sound so bad, huh? You probably think you could do it...right? And maybe you could. I mean I have—not without cutting every corner I can find—but I think you be surprised at the difficulty you'd face. It sounds easy until you realize what all the $12.50/week has to cover. Toothpaste, deodorant, toothbrush, shampoo, soap, floss, hair products, baby powder, Q-tips, and lotion. And that's just SOME of the hygiene. You didn't think hygiene was provided by the prison did you?

I should tell you there is a "safety net" for indigent inmates who can't afford deodorant and toothpaste. But trust me when I tell you this charity isn't out of a sense of responsibility or some other moral justification. This is strictly crowd control. The fact that we're stacked on top of each other already makes for a hostile environment; add a bunkie who's aroma is a clear violation of the Geneva convention and you have the components for constant chaos; poor hygiene, impending assault, solitary confinement, ambulance ride, medical bills, paperwork in triplicate. It's the paperwork that gets 'em.

Oh, they'll help you, help them, but you should also know, there are going to be some stipulations; if you can prove you're broke and show that you haven't had ANY money deposited into your account for 6 months, you can apply for indigent status; where, if you're approved—a process that takes 6-8 weeks—they’ll front you the money for some basic hygiene (roughly $11/month); all of which will be added as an outstanding balance to be collected from any future deposits from friends or family members. Institutional reimbursement. So, if you ARE indigent, don't plan on using the $20 aunt Martha scrapped together for your birthday to get yourself a honeybun or a bag of chips to celebrate yet another year in paradise.

With that being said, VERY few people actually qualify for indigent status. The guidelines are intentionally too stringent. Not a dollar deposited in your account for six months?

So if, by some financial wizardry, you manage to cover your hygiene with the $12.50, you'd be set right? I mean after all, food is provided.

Not so fast.

In 2013, to slow the fiscal bleeding of their bloated prison budget, the MDOC contracted out the food service responsibilities. Aramark—a private company—out bid the competitors. Said thy could do it at the lowest cost for Michigan tax payers and still turn a hefty profit. After all it's not like we could choose to go somewhere else. Not long after Aramark, with their shareholders and profit margins, took over operations, that corners began being cut and fuckery was always on the menu. They were serving cruelly undersized portions of intentionally inedible food, in an attempt to lower the amount of inmates coming going to chow, saving money on their food costs. 

But they must not have know who they were dealing with. There are always stipulations when dealing with the MDOC. Part of Aramark's payment was in correlation with a minimum amount of inmates who showed up everyday for chow.

In the first few years Aramark was fined several million dollars for failing to meet their basic contract requirements. They soon decided it was no longer economically viable to continue the business venture of feeding inmates.

Trinity Food Service immediately stepped in to fill the void. They were given much less restrictions; they got paid regardless of how many inmates showed up to eat. And with this blank check, they were smart enough to buy into a company called Access—who, not-so-coincidentally, is the commissary provider for entire MDOC. This conflict-of-interest/marriage-made-in-hell actually incentivized serving inedible food which would drive up commissary sales by the inmates supplementing the inadequate diet provided by Trinity. Just last year, forced by the exposure of this scandal, as well as the same financial problems that drove Aramark out, Trinity followed suit.

The MDOC took back the reigns. Since then, neither the menu or the serving sizes have changed.

So yeah, TECHNICALLY, food is provided. But if you plan on relying on the free cuisine of the MDOC for your sole source of sustenance, then plan on being hungry for most of your life; I mean genuinely, stomach-grumbling hungry—go to bed hungry, wake up hungry—all you think about is FOOD, hungry.

And if you find yourself willing to use some of that $12.50 budget for food, make sure to choose your commissary items sparingly.

If you've been paying attention it shouldn't surprise you to learn that the food items on the store list aren't exactly priced to compete. There is no competition.

Let's say you planned to spend half your weekly budget—$6.25—on hygiene; that would buy you one Power Up deodorant (the cheapest available) at $2.50, a Cool Wave toothpaste (also the cheapest) at $1.50, a bar of cocoa-butter soap at $.65, a bottle of Suave shampoo at $2.25, and OPPS, you've already exceeded your budget by 67¢. And you didn't even get a toothbrush yet. Keep in mind these are travel size products.

So let's just say, for the sake of argument—and a hatred for math, that a benevolent inmate hooked you up with a free set of bristles.

That leaves you with $5.60 to deal with your incessantly bitchy digestive system for the upcoming week. As every college student and prison inmate knows, the best bang for your buck are Ramen noodles. They'll run you .34¢ a piece. You'll want at least two per day. That comes out to $4.76/week. And maybe a 8oz tub of cheese for flavor at 1.84, which comes out to $6.60. Still $1 over budget. Since soups are .34¢, you'll have to cut three from your total. Sure, three days of the week you'll be more than a little hungry but you'll survive—plus you'll make it under budget.

Oh, but you forgot to order a bowl or a spoon. Fuck! Those will cost you a few extra bucks. You'll have to take it out of next week's budget. You'll just eat less in the weeks to come. After all, you gotta do what you gotta do.

Now you have your hygiene and food for the week. Sure, you're broke, but you're relatively clean and you even have a couple of soups.

Success! See that wasn't so bad.

You celebration won't last too long before you to realize that you won't have money to put on the phone so you can talk to your family,

no stamps to write them,

no pens,

no pencils,

no paper,

no tablet,

no coat to supplement the windbreaker they give you while in Michigan's upper peninsula,

no sweat pants,

no wife beaters,

no boxers,

no extra t-shirts,

no gym shoes to play sports in,

no watch,

no sunglasses

no fan

no TV

no music to put on your tablet,

no nail clippers,

no ChapStick,

no money for a haircut,

no footlocker,

no lock,

no art supplies if you want to draw or paint,

no books,

no magazines,

no coffee,

no coffee cup,

no cup in general,

no salt,

no pepper,

no shower shoes,

no money for mail so you can't attend a correspondence college,

no frivolous snack food that EVERY human being should have access to when they're feeling like shit.

You'll have NO extra money for ANYTHING, but you'll survive.

When I first came to prison I heard about a motion you can file to get your fees suspended for a few years so you can at least buy your appliances and personal property; a TV and some underwear. It cost me four bags of coffee at $3.62 a piece to have it drafted and typed up.

Six weeks later I received a response from my judge. In his opinion, "$50 a month is more than adequate to live comfortably while in prison." I wish he were right.

Now I don't want you to get the wrong idea; we don't just lay down and die under the boot of these financial restrictions; we do find ways survive; much to the dismay of the MDOC.

They don't want us to run stores,

to loan out food at an interest rate,

to run gambling tables,

to make alcohol,

to do tattoos,

to fix or alter electronics,

to make and sell taffy or fudge,

to send money to our homie's unlocked accounts so they can go to store for us.

They don't let us receive the money to take care of ourselves, and they don't want us to hustle it up.

If we get popped engaging in any of these entrepreneurial activities we can be hit with disciplinary tickets resulting in loss of privileges, raised security level, and even solitary confinement.

Still, you gotta do what you gotta do.

It's beautiful to see that the world is beginning to wake up to the injustices of the criminal justice system (irony, anyone?), like the travesty of mass incarceration, the racial disparities in sentencing, and the horrendous effects of longterm solitary confinement. But the problem is systemic; it runs through EVERY aspect of the prison industrial complex, and it's necessary to expose the smaller, less well known, areas of fuckery taking place in here as well.

Sometimes it can be less about the actual mechanisms of oppression, and more about the idiocy, that's so hard to endure. I mean think about it; If they would tax 25%-50% of money over $50/month, it would both allow US to get some of the things we need, as well as provide at least SOME money towards their squeeze play of restitution and court costs. As it stands now, no one I know, who owes BOTH fees, EVER allows more than $50 to be deposited into their account, because 100% of it will be taken. Of course they're fucking US over, but these assholes are fucking THEMSELVES over too! This is the enraging stupidity that, those of us paying attention, have to deal with in here. It’s terrifying to think that these are the same assholes responsible for our well being.

Still we find ways to subvert the system; we hustle when we can, live off the secure packs our friends and family order us once a quarter, find slick ways to have our families drop money in our friend's unlocked accounts so they can go to store for us (without this little loophole I don't know what I'd do), and we save up for the property we need one month at a time.

As difficult it is to get used to, I've learned a lot about the difference between what I WANT and what I NEED. Anyone who knows me knows this isn't about pity—it isn't even about money—I’ve turned this place, this struggle, this minimalist lifestyle into a chance to discover my inner strength. Rarely in life do you get the opportunity to find out what you're really made of, what you're capable of withstanding. This isn't about belly aching; its about uncovering the hypocrisy and foot-in-the-mouth policies of the system I am currently being ground through.

It's about telling the world what I see... and maybe venting a little bit.

The world needs to know that in prison there is this all pervasive and ever-present feeling of being constantly fucked over, constantly taken advantage of. Even the money. Everything of value is squeezed dry by these heartless corporations who've lobbied their way into a captive market of consumers that would’ve given Rockefeller nocturnal emissions.

Global Tel-Link, our prison phone provider, was recently sued for price gouging inmates and their families, charging .30¢/minute. The court ordered them to drop their rates to match standard FCC regulated phone carriers and to eliminate fraudulent fees. Days before the mandated changes were to take place Global Tel-Link filed appeals. Not because they would win but because it would buy them another year of swindling families with impunity.

JL Marcus and Access, the companies we buy our shoes and clothes from, get their merchandise from discounted items the factory has deemed irregular or too damaged for retail sale. They mark up these otherwise unsellable items and push them on us. Our boxers cost $20 a 3/pack, and the stitching is already coming undone. Our shoes are missing rivets, or the soles aren't glued properly so after a few weeks they flop like on overheated Labrador.

JPay, the company that provides the tablet I'm currently using to write this rant, charges us $.25 an email, tablets that are constantly breaking or malfunctioning, and accessories with planned obsolescence.

Even the vending machines in the visiting room here charge $3.50 for everything from tiny microwavable cheeseburgers to tiny burritos, and $4 photos with your kids.

The MDOC even has its own company called MSI. For the last three years I've been trying to save up for a footlocker that couldn't cost more than $5 to produce yet they marked the price up again this year; it's now up to, $118$. That's three months without going to the store for ANYTHING, food or hygiene. (I’m still saving for it by the way.)

These over-priced items are what we starve ourselves for. We save month after month just to be ripped off and fucked over. Capitalism at its best; America at its worst.

There is something truly evil, truly criminal, in taking such obvious advantage of the helpless and vulnerable... and I'm not talking about US; I'm talking about OUR FAMILIES, who have to single handedly foot the outrageous bill in order to maintain a connection with their loved ones; to buy a price-gouged peace of mind, to know that we're properly clothed and fed while we are away, to, often, choose between rent and a relationship with a brother, father, son, sister, mother, daughter.

At some point you just get fed up with the hypocrisy of it all. We know what we did to get in here. And we're actively participating in what society has asked of us to make amends. But to listen to these righteous assholes preach about justice, while their hands are firmly planted in our back pockets, is becoming more than one man should be asked to endure.

Everywhere you turn you come to see that this place doesn't FOSTER rehabilitation it REJECTS it. They force us into poverty and make all the shit we do to survive illegal... They cut off our hands and wonder why we won't stop using our feet!

It's spirit crushing. It's heartbreaking. It's the place I call home.

This was meant to be an outlet for the frustration with our prison debts but snowballed into an outburst about all things monetarily fucked in the system. Sometimes, writing is all I can do to keep from losing my shit. I get a slight sense of relief knowing that some of the bullshit we deal with will be brought to light no matter how dim the illumination proves to be.

So thanks for listening to another ranting tirade of a lowly inmate in the Michigan Department of Corrections. Just another man learning to write with his feet while trying to save for a footlocker....one month at a time.

And in case you were wondering; this is what an MDOC squeeze play looks like.

Your friendly neighborhood convict, Bobby C. @NotesFromThePen