January 25, 2025

I come in and out of meth withdrawal, fighting for sanity. I sit in a six-foot-square, urine-soaked holding cell wearing a padded suicide frock while master gamers in ‘Classification’ pick a cell for me to await prison transport.

A nurse robot asks me about my mental state, jotting sloppy words on a clipboard. Will I be a harm to myself or others? I already have, lady.

I can’t contact anyone to let them know what happened to me since my phone was confiscated. I couldn’t remember anyone’s phone number. Guards playing Casino on their smart phones couldn’t bother to look up a simple local phone number for me.

Arbutumus and Arbuckle, my feline companions who sat on my porch painting languid swirls of cozy with their twitchy tails, are with my judgy landlady. At least they’ll lead happier lives now. Idaho law enforcers could care less about how I left my life prior to arrest. What if my house was on fire? What if my infirmed aunt was left alone in my apartment? What if my bathtub water was still running? People leading isolated lives are greatly disadvantaged in prison; they have no support network to rally during emergency. Two blocks from the U-Haul dealer, cops ripped me from my still-idling rental truck. Here’s hoping that crabby old biddy at the rental counter found it.