Forgive Me Not

I realize some of my “Zap Tales“ are hard to believe, but for the most part they are as factually accurate as possible. At times, to make them an easier or more humorous read, I might change the order of events, or highlight a few points to give my audience a much needed chuckle.

I try to do this without turning my story into an angry rant from a convict, or one filled with gloom and despair. If you wanted a story along those lines, you could just stop at a newsstand as the headlines are either heart wrenching or scandalous. Even the happy lotto winner is buried behind five or six pages of grief.

This is why I consciously chose to no longer read any of them. Usually, after washing the ink off my hands, “it skeeves me.” I often wind up feeling like a cartoon character that just grabbed a high-tension wire. This includes the black face with plumes of smoke emitted from the top of my head. Frazzled.

More often then not, a defining moment in someone’s life (or a distorted version of it) is flung across the countertops of America. Then it is left to blow at the winds mercy on a subway or bus seat, only to be discussed by a water cooler later in the day. Most mistakenly assume those of us in prison wake up late, go to sleep later, and in-between working out and getting tattoos, sit idly eating potato chips while watching Jerry Springer.

I guess you could get a tattoo and watch Jerry at the same time, but that would take actual planning, which is beyond most convicts. After all, if they were expert planners, they probably would not be in prison in the first place. On the other hand , a late start for me is anything after 5am. Then – after the twenty or so minutes it takes for me to do the morning thing – right around the time I take my first sip of coffee, I wake up my typewriter as well.