i haven't been here that long, but long enough to call it tradition. or habitual. it's like a carton of cigarettes, by the time you've gotten into it enough to be addicted it's too late to realize that you don't earn enough to pay for it and food.
so they finally get to me, after round after round of outpourings of the most intimate sort, and even the most undesirable of undesirables scores a warm "hey, man..."
the room focuses on me. and they say "hey, man". then they tie me to my chair, duct-tape my mouth shut, and begin to beat me into submission.
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for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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