Dear No One,
I told Ender that this was either going to be very exciting month, or a very disappointing one. So far, disappointing has proved the champion of that duel. Recall that I entered in all four categories of the PEN prison writing contest back in September. No luck. It was a blow, but I can understand how it happened. There are thousands of entrants, thousands more pieces to cipher and judge. That my crap might be overlooked is not beyond the realm of possibility. I knew going in that my style of poetry (not free verse, but actual verse) is out of the vogue and has been for decades. My drama work was short and humorous, I doubt either quality played well. (Iambic pentameter was not requested) My short story was titled "Mel works for Satan", so we can both guess what went wrong there. I had been holding out serious hope for the nonfiction segment, my essay wasn't long, but it was highly quotable. I'm going to have my brother post my entries on the site (williammyrl.com), so you can see what lost compared to what won. I only had a month to prepare my entries, still, expectations were dashed.
More realistic were my expectations of participating in the Washington and Lee course this year. I wrote my application seriously this time. They asked for a paragraph explaining why I wanted to be in the class.Here it is.
I am the first member of my family not to attend college, the first not to finish high school, and the first to go to prison. These distinctions are not a source of pride, so when an opportunity arises to further my education without cost, to visit, if only in facsimile, a classroom like the ones I could have known, I am compelled to take it. I am grateful and surprised that the Washington and Lee program exists, and hopeful to have a chance to participate. I believe I could make a real contribution to the discourse of the course, as I already maintain a blog about prison life; quotidian concerns, education and mental health issues. (Letters to No One, williammyrl.com) Also, in May of this year, one of my essays on a related subject will be published in Reed magazine of San Jose University. The nature of freedom and unfreedom is a topic I can't help but be attracted to. Ten pages wouldn't be enough to hold every reason this class appeals to me, but you asked for a paragraph, so this will have to do.
What did the other people write? I am told by the inmates who work in the school that some of the people who did get in have difficulty with basic punctuation and sentence structure. I found out earlier today that I wasn't selected, so excuse any bitterness in my tone, but what criterion was the principal looking for when he made his selections? What is the point of a class if the people who will be best able to take advantage of what is offered are not allowed in? It isn't as if this is a GED class, its an elective college course that gives real credits.
Venting, venting. I've been playing a lot of Magic: the gathering, lately (The cards aren't allowed, we make our own). I can't listen to "This is Me", by Draft King, without feeling better. Damn my emotional robustness!
Yours,
William Myrl
Saturday, March 26, 2016
William Myrl; Letters to No One (43)
Let's talk about the gays. In prison, most folks are either homophobic or all too comfortable with the genitalia of other men. Earlier today, I was gunned down while speaking with my family on the phone. Gunning has a very specific meaning in this context. I was talking about magic cards with my brother and my dad when I perceived motion in my peripherals. There wasn't anyone else around the phones, it was our pods time to be outside and many prisoners had availed themselves of the opportunity. The gentlemen in cell five was standing on his toilet pleasuring himself in my direction. I turned away, because making eye contact means your into it. They actually believe this. They think that an officer who doesn't write them up immediately is in favor of their masturbation, and one who meets their gaze at any point is "locking in." Later that afternoon he apologized to me and asked that I not mention what had happened to anyone else. This works for both of us. He doesn't want other people to know hes into dudes, and I don't want to tell the story. Also, the homophobes, which is a category that I sometimes think includes everyone other than me and the gays, would insist I fight him over it. Like other primates, the homo-sedereus needs to prove himself physically to others. It isn't a real issue, he was testing me. Most people will lie if you ask them whether they are gay, so the easiest thing to do is show them your dick and see what happens. It seems odd to me, but this is the way of things. I've had it happen on one other occasion. I was at another prison, and had just come out of my yearlong stint in segregation. .My celly seemed nice, and he was. Also, he whipped it out halfway through the Sherlock Holmes movie on TNT. I expressed my flabbergast, and he apologized. We never spoke of it again, and we were together two months without any issues.
Sometimes, I find out from other people that I'm gay. While I was at work a few weeks back one of my confreres passed me a note. It was a couple of paragraphs asking whether I was into "that life", which is what they call it. I wrote "nope" on the bottom and handed it back.
He later told me that he had wanted to talk to me about it because someone else had told him that was my persuasion. That someone else continued to insist to him that I was. I knew this other fellow, though not well, so I discussed the matter with him in he chow hall not long after. Apparently, he was at the other institution when I was, and he had learned there that I was engaged in activities of the kind with my aforementioned celly, and also this other guy I used to play scrabble with. It is amazing how many homosexual relationships I can be party to without knowing it. To clarify, I'm not into dudes, and I did clarify that with him. I don't care about what people do to themselves or to each other, but I would rather they left men apart from their bacchanals.
This isn't something I get excited about, but that's true of almost everything. Is ataraxia a medical condition or just a fun word?
Yours,
William Myrl
Sometimes, I find out from other people that I'm gay. While I was at work a few weeks back one of my confreres passed me a note. It was a couple of paragraphs asking whether I was into "that life", which is what they call it. I wrote "nope" on the bottom and handed it back.
He later told me that he had wanted to talk to me about it because someone else had told him that was my persuasion. That someone else continued to insist to him that I was. I knew this other fellow, though not well, so I discussed the matter with him in he chow hall not long after. Apparently, he was at the other institution when I was, and he had learned there that I was engaged in activities of the kind with my aforementioned celly, and also this other guy I used to play scrabble with. It is amazing how many homosexual relationships I can be party to without knowing it. To clarify, I'm not into dudes, and I did clarify that with him. I don't care about what people do to themselves or to each other, but I would rather they left men apart from their bacchanals.
This isn't something I get excited about, but that's true of almost everything. Is ataraxia a medical condition or just a fun word?
Yours,
William Myrl
William Myrl; Letters to No One (42)
Dear No One,
I am sitting in the pod, ten o'clock at night, listening to LGFUAD on repeat. Its one of those songs that doesn't dull until it does, and then I can put the volume up one more notch and it feels fresh again. I had cheese and biscuits for breakfast, so I saved the cheese. Lunch was a pepperoni sandwich, not terribly enticing, so I saved the meat. Before they let us out after nine o'clock count I cooked a ramen noodle and a half with a handful of saltine crackers in an old chip bag. If you use just enough water and put pressure on it to sit for a while it becomes something the locals call a brick. I cooked the pepperoni and cheese with some crumbled crackers in the microwave, then I put them in a bowl with the squished out brick. Coincidentally, I had some of the commissary pizza a sauce at hand to complete the dish. It looked sort of like a pizza pie (a literal pizza pie, not a regular pizza) and I know you must tire of me talking about my inmate cookery but it is interesting to me. I was quite pleased with myself. Including a Pepsi the meal would be about a dollar fifty, a third of a days wage. Living large.
Back to the music. Mania is difficult to describe. Whenever the med kids ask me about it I get vague and flounder. Music makes it easier, because that is what mania feels like, I think. LGFUAD, by Motion City Soundtrack (I've never listened to another song of theirs all the way through) and I Can't Decide, by the Scissor Sisters,(another band I don't actually listen to) are both fantastic. The entire debut album of The Protomen will also do just fine.
Life is looking well for me. My essay comes out in two months, and I have every expectation of getting into the Washington and Lee class. My brother is keeping the site together, and the eBook version of Mythopoeia and the Riven Shield will be a thing in the near future. Mom is worrying that the Square head and Triangle comics won't send the right message about me to future readers, but I feel it will be alright. In a lot of ways, my time here is not like other peoples. Maybe that makes me a bad reporter, except I am all you've got, so that makes me the best reporter. I'm pretty sure that's how it works.
I have been trying to get moved to the same pod my buddies went to, so far no luck. Our unit manager is more amenable than most to making changes, especially for shop workers. Technically, you can't request specific cells, if they move you it is supposed to be a swap to whatever spot happens to be open somewhere else at the time. It is one of the few instances where the reality diverging from policy comes out in our favor. Our guy is allegedly leaving the prison soon, so I may not have long to secure my spot. I will be comfortable either way, my current lodgings aren't bad. It was nice having friends for a while, there was no reason to expect it to last. At least their wierd blood fued with Mao has cooled.
Sooner or later, everyone starts playing quidditch.
If you got that reference, thank you.
The song has changed. This is Me, by Draft King. That's another flavor of crazy for you, and a much pleasanter one than the previously mentioned.
Yours,
William Myrl
I am sitting in the pod, ten o'clock at night, listening to LGFUAD on repeat. Its one of those songs that doesn't dull until it does, and then I can put the volume up one more notch and it feels fresh again. I had cheese and biscuits for breakfast, so I saved the cheese. Lunch was a pepperoni sandwich, not terribly enticing, so I saved the meat. Before they let us out after nine o'clock count I cooked a ramen noodle and a half with a handful of saltine crackers in an old chip bag. If you use just enough water and put pressure on it to sit for a while it becomes something the locals call a brick. I cooked the pepperoni and cheese with some crumbled crackers in the microwave, then I put them in a bowl with the squished out brick. Coincidentally, I had some of the commissary pizza a sauce at hand to complete the dish. It looked sort of like a pizza pie (a literal pizza pie, not a regular pizza) and I know you must tire of me talking about my inmate cookery but it is interesting to me. I was quite pleased with myself. Including a Pepsi the meal would be about a dollar fifty, a third of a days wage. Living large.
Back to the music. Mania is difficult to describe. Whenever the med kids ask me about it I get vague and flounder. Music makes it easier, because that is what mania feels like, I think. LGFUAD, by Motion City Soundtrack (I've never listened to another song of theirs all the way through) and I Can't Decide, by the Scissor Sisters,(another band I don't actually listen to) are both fantastic. The entire debut album of The Protomen will also do just fine.
Life is looking well for me. My essay comes out in two months, and I have every expectation of getting into the Washington and Lee class. My brother is keeping the site together, and the eBook version of Mythopoeia and the Riven Shield will be a thing in the near future. Mom is worrying that the Square head and Triangle comics won't send the right message about me to future readers, but I feel it will be alright. In a lot of ways, my time here is not like other peoples. Maybe that makes me a bad reporter, except I am all you've got, so that makes me the best reporter. I'm pretty sure that's how it works.
I have been trying to get moved to the same pod my buddies went to, so far no luck. Our unit manager is more amenable than most to making changes, especially for shop workers. Technically, you can't request specific cells, if they move you it is supposed to be a swap to whatever spot happens to be open somewhere else at the time. It is one of the few instances where the reality diverging from policy comes out in our favor. Our guy is allegedly leaving the prison soon, so I may not have long to secure my spot. I will be comfortable either way, my current lodgings aren't bad. It was nice having friends for a while, there was no reason to expect it to last. At least their wierd blood fued with Mao has cooled.
Sooner or later, everyone starts playing quidditch.
If you got that reference, thank you.
The song has changed. This is Me, by Draft King. That's another flavor of crazy for you, and a much pleasanter one than the previously mentioned.
Yours,
William Myrl
Thursday, February 25, 2016
William Myrl; Letter to No One (41)
Dear No One,
There was a movie on SYFY called Cloud Atlas. I know I am a few years behind, but you are going to have to live with it. The premise of the movie is simple, trace a love affair through multiple incarnations in time. Its the sort of thing that looks good on paper. They used the same actors in all seven or so incarnations, playing different parts, and the makeup required bordered on the comical. The worst job was when they turned an Asian girl into a Caucasian redhead. They shoved her face first into the uncanny valley and left her to die. Poor thing. I cringed. Most of the rest was the sort of transformation you could expect to see on SYFY's original series Face Off. I can only imagine how much money was lost on this film. Those people who were responsible for the Matrix put it all together. The siblings.
The theme of the film was naturally love's transcendence over all, including time and space. The appeal of reincarnation has always been lost on me. If the only real connection between your lives is the author's insistence on their connection, there isn't much there. Yes, all the stories were love stories, but most stories are. It doesn't become more meaningful because you arbitrarily declare that a given set of stories is all about the same souls wandering through lifecycles. The stories themselves are left unchanged. The continuity of self exists in memory, both our own and those of others, as well as the record of reality, which is usually ignored.
These characters don't know they are connected, nor do the characters around them. In reality, there is no record of their connection. But for the sake of the movie the audience is asked to play the part of outsider memory. We are told these are the same people in different bodies, and we carry the burden of their shared existence from one iteration to the next.
Perhaps my least favorite part of any movie is when the writers begin pretending to be wise. No speech was ever profound that contained the phrase "from womb to tomb", you do not get points for being as clever as a bumper sticker. This screenplay insisted on repeating a few bits of nice sounding nonsense about love and the interconnected nature of life in a tone of voice that we are supposed to interpret as being wise. It was decidedly disappointing.
At one point, Tom Hanks and Halley Berry are post apocalyptic cow pokes speaking in a broken patois reminiscent of Stephen King's Dark Tower series. I don't know why I torture myself.
Have you seen anything good lately? I did enjoy the recent movie about the lady who got Dan Rather fired by successfully exposing president Bush as being AWOL during his service as a pretend pilot for the national guard.
Yours,
William Myrl
There was a movie on SYFY called Cloud Atlas. I know I am a few years behind, but you are going to have to live with it. The premise of the movie is simple, trace a love affair through multiple incarnations in time. Its the sort of thing that looks good on paper. They used the same actors in all seven or so incarnations, playing different parts, and the makeup required bordered on the comical. The worst job was when they turned an Asian girl into a Caucasian redhead. They shoved her face first into the uncanny valley and left her to die. Poor thing. I cringed. Most of the rest was the sort of transformation you could expect to see on SYFY's original series Face Off. I can only imagine how much money was lost on this film. Those people who were responsible for the Matrix put it all together. The siblings.
The theme of the film was naturally love's transcendence over all, including time and space. The appeal of reincarnation has always been lost on me. If the only real connection between your lives is the author's insistence on their connection, there isn't much there. Yes, all the stories were love stories, but most stories are. It doesn't become more meaningful because you arbitrarily declare that a given set of stories is all about the same souls wandering through lifecycles. The stories themselves are left unchanged. The continuity of self exists in memory, both our own and those of others, as well as the record of reality, which is usually ignored.
These characters don't know they are connected, nor do the characters around them. In reality, there is no record of their connection. But for the sake of the movie the audience is asked to play the part of outsider memory. We are told these are the same people in different bodies, and we carry the burden of their shared existence from one iteration to the next.
Perhaps my least favorite part of any movie is when the writers begin pretending to be wise. No speech was ever profound that contained the phrase "from womb to tomb", you do not get points for being as clever as a bumper sticker. This screenplay insisted on repeating a few bits of nice sounding nonsense about love and the interconnected nature of life in a tone of voice that we are supposed to interpret as being wise. It was decidedly disappointing.
At one point, Tom Hanks and Halley Berry are post apocalyptic cow pokes speaking in a broken patois reminiscent of Stephen King's Dark Tower series. I don't know why I torture myself.
Have you seen anything good lately? I did enjoy the recent movie about the lady who got Dan Rather fired by successfully exposing president Bush as being AWOL during his service as a pretend pilot for the national guard.
Yours,
William Myrl
William Myrl; Letters to No One (40)
Dear No One,
Remember Mean Girls? It was that brief , bright moment before Lindsey Lohan plummeted into fiery obscurity. Anyway, I am reminded of it by the behavior of some of my prison friends. Social dynamics are weird sometimes, and three of them have banded together against the fourth. They belittle him, threaten and occasionally cheat him, for reasons that are mostly imaginary. When I see them, they commiserate about his alleged douchery, talking about them behind their backs, "stirring shit." In truth, he looms much larger in their minds than they do in his, they spread rumors about him, and discuss him in a derogatory fashion, on an almost daily basis. He does talk about them to others, generally when they have just done something unfair to him. As would anyone. One of my favor tire phrases is, "why was my name in his mouth," because it is inevitably followed by shit talk about said person who had ones name in his mouth.
The victim is Mao, I can't remember if I've referred to him by that name before. He is legitimately annoying. He has a stale smell, due to his aversion to deodorant, and he has the bad habit of explaining things you already know in as protracted a fashion as possible. Mao can also be a flake. He has great artistic talent and sporadic motivation. His straightforward manner and pacifism are to the good, however, and he laughs often and with sincerity. I have known him peripherally for several years, and never felt animosity towards him.
These other three feed hate to each other. They are my friends, I like them and enjoy their company, but for some reason Mao has become their scapegoat of all ills. The incidents, in and of themselves, are childish and uninteresting squabbles. Its very high school. If he has something they want, they resent him for it. Arguments usually start over games, because that is their common ground. Things escalate in a confusing fashion that clearly has nothing to do with the problems at hand.
I wish I knew what you wanted to hear about. I ramble on an on and seem to end in nowhere. If you have any topic ideas tell me.
will@williammyrl.com
I put in my application for the Washington and Lee University class this year. If I don't get in it is because of affirmative action. No kidding. The tailor shop has a ratio, the classes do as well.
Yours,
William Myrl
Remember Mean Girls? It was that brief , bright moment before Lindsey Lohan plummeted into fiery obscurity. Anyway, I am reminded of it by the behavior of some of my prison friends. Social dynamics are weird sometimes, and three of them have banded together against the fourth. They belittle him, threaten and occasionally cheat him, for reasons that are mostly imaginary. When I see them, they commiserate about his alleged douchery, talking about them behind their backs, "stirring shit." In truth, he looms much larger in their minds than they do in his, they spread rumors about him, and discuss him in a derogatory fashion, on an almost daily basis. He does talk about them to others, generally when they have just done something unfair to him. As would anyone. One of my favor tire phrases is, "why was my name in his mouth," because it is inevitably followed by shit talk about said person who had ones name in his mouth.
The victim is Mao, I can't remember if I've referred to him by that name before. He is legitimately annoying. He has a stale smell, due to his aversion to deodorant, and he has the bad habit of explaining things you already know in as protracted a fashion as possible. Mao can also be a flake. He has great artistic talent and sporadic motivation. His straightforward manner and pacifism are to the good, however, and he laughs often and with sincerity. I have known him peripherally for several years, and never felt animosity towards him.
These other three feed hate to each other. They are my friends, I like them and enjoy their company, but for some reason Mao has become their scapegoat of all ills. The incidents, in and of themselves, are childish and uninteresting squabbles. Its very high school. If he has something they want, they resent him for it. Arguments usually start over games, because that is their common ground. Things escalate in a confusing fashion that clearly has nothing to do with the problems at hand.
I wish I knew what you wanted to hear about. I ramble on an on and seem to end in nowhere. If you have any topic ideas tell me.
will@williammyrl.com
I put in my application for the Washington and Lee University class this year. If I don't get in it is because of affirmative action. No kidding. The tailor shop has a ratio, the classes do as well.
Yours,
William Myrl
William Myrl; Letters to No One (39)
Dear No One,
I would like to juxtapose two experiences for you. A few Fridays ago, I was privileged to enjoy the annual appreciation meal for shop workers. Their are two shops on this compound, the tailor shop and the shoe shop. If you'll recall, I am employed as a clerk in the former. The regulations governing the meal seem to vary from year to year, but one thing that they've settled on is that the kitchen has to be the place where the food is cooked, no outside source. I can but presume this is a means of ensuring a little gustatory graft. They caught someone on the boulevard with his pants full of pilfered chicken. It was real chicken by the way, I haven't had actual chicken meat in about five years. I would prefer that they just pay us more, but I won't complain about a free meal. The shops are set slightly apart from the rest of the compound, and they don't have quite the prison vibe that you find everywhere else. There is still the occasional strip search, naturally, but that is part of the appeal of the job. People take small things, office supplies, thread, needles, that's about it.
I said I would contrast the appreciation meal with someone else. Fate did that for me. The next morning, at breakfast , I overheard people discussing a compound wide or even state wide piss test. They do drug tests all the time, both randomly and off of a hot list. I have been called up only once, and it was a less than delightful romp. You have two hours and two cups of water to give them a sample. If you don't, you go to jail (segregation), and are most likely given an institutional charge just as if you had failed the test. I have a shy bladder, and I came within minutes of not making the deadline. By lunchtime Saturday, it was pretty obvious we were being tested after count, around 2 O'Clock. So at eleven or so, I had my last pee, and I drank two and one half peanut butter jars of water between lunch and when they came in the pod around 2:30. It was uncomfortable, and I had to let off a little pressure before they got to my cell because my kidneys were hurting something fierce. I know that I am not going to be able to relax whatever muscle you have to relax to urinate, so my strategy is simple. If enough water is in my bladder, I can push it out. It isn't fun, and probably could damage my stuff if I made a habit of it, but what are you going to do? I fill up the cup in roughly twice the time it would have taken a normal person, and they move on. Victory. I missed library for this.
So there are my two stories for for this letter, I hope it makes more sense to you than it does me.
Yours,
William Myrl
I would like to juxtapose two experiences for you. A few Fridays ago, I was privileged to enjoy the annual appreciation meal for shop workers. Their are two shops on this compound, the tailor shop and the shoe shop. If you'll recall, I am employed as a clerk in the former. The regulations governing the meal seem to vary from year to year, but one thing that they've settled on is that the kitchen has to be the place where the food is cooked, no outside source. I can but presume this is a means of ensuring a little gustatory graft. They caught someone on the boulevard with his pants full of pilfered chicken. It was real chicken by the way, I haven't had actual chicken meat in about five years. I would prefer that they just pay us more, but I won't complain about a free meal. The shops are set slightly apart from the rest of the compound, and they don't have quite the prison vibe that you find everywhere else. There is still the occasional strip search, naturally, but that is part of the appeal of the job. People take small things, office supplies, thread, needles, that's about it.
I said I would contrast the appreciation meal with someone else. Fate did that for me. The next morning, at breakfast , I overheard people discussing a compound wide or even state wide piss test. They do drug tests all the time, both randomly and off of a hot list. I have been called up only once, and it was a less than delightful romp. You have two hours and two cups of water to give them a sample. If you don't, you go to jail (segregation), and are most likely given an institutional charge just as if you had failed the test. I have a shy bladder, and I came within minutes of not making the deadline. By lunchtime Saturday, it was pretty obvious we were being tested after count, around 2 O'Clock. So at eleven or so, I had my last pee, and I drank two and one half peanut butter jars of water between lunch and when they came in the pod around 2:30. It was uncomfortable, and I had to let off a little pressure before they got to my cell because my kidneys were hurting something fierce. I know that I am not going to be able to relax whatever muscle you have to relax to urinate, so my strategy is simple. If enough water is in my bladder, I can push it out. It isn't fun, and probably could damage my stuff if I made a habit of it, but what are you going to do? I fill up the cup in roughly twice the time it would have taken a normal person, and they move on. Victory. I missed library for this.
So there are my two stories for for this letter, I hope it makes more sense to you than it does me.
Yours,
William Myrl
William Myrl; Letters to No One (38)
I don't strongly associate with the word bipolar. Its the term they use now, but it isn't a realistic descriptor of an emotional spectrum. Manic depression is not diametric, there isn't a thermometer that runs from sparkle to fuliginous that you can read my mood on. If it has to be a two dimensional geometric concept I would choose a circle, but those don't really have poles. Thanks a lot, king Arthur,
I lead a strange life. They fired someone at work today, they have been getting meaner about people not looking busy lately. I think that the bosses honestly aren't capable of internalizing the context. They entertain the pretext that this is a real job, a two real factory, instead of a place where inmates make clothing for other inmates and receive slave wages in return. Though I should say, best slave wages on the compound. For sure. In an actually company, payroll is a big section of the budget. Riding the clock can be a serious issue. Here, the three people in the office individually make as much money as the seventy workers combined salaries. I've seen last years budget, and payroll was a laughable fraction of it, The shop did 1.2 million in business, and had a payroll outlay of sixty some thousand. We could all stay clocked in over the weekend and it wouldn't make a difference. I'm not mad at them, I just want to make note of the absurdity,
I got a response back from the education secretary about the impending college class. Details will be posted in the pods when they are finalized. Not really helpful, but at least its confirmation that it is happening. I'm daydreaming about it while I fold pants and clip excess strings from bar-tacks and hems.
I'm actually in a relatively good place now. I'm busy, and I don't have any serious problems with my celly even though we'all never be true friends. Its odd, the things we don't have juxtaposed with the things we do. I'm thumb typing on a touchscreen right now, listening to drunken love, but I don't have a room to myself, or a non plastic chair, or tape of any kind. If you want tape here you have to steal it. It makes some art projects difficult, at you can get lucky and peel strips of scotch off of your mail when they give it to you. It all gets fondled, remember, and then they staple or tape the envelope shut again. Sometimes both, for whatever reason,
Now its Adele, someone like you.
What does manic depression mean to me? It means eating your mermaid, and not having her too.
Yours,
William Myrl Smitherman
I lead a strange life. They fired someone at work today, they have been getting meaner about people not looking busy lately. I think that the bosses honestly aren't capable of internalizing the context. They entertain the pretext that this is a real job, a two real factory, instead of a place where inmates make clothing for other inmates and receive slave wages in return. Though I should say, best slave wages on the compound. For sure. In an actually company, payroll is a big section of the budget. Riding the clock can be a serious issue. Here, the three people in the office individually make as much money as the seventy workers combined salaries. I've seen last years budget, and payroll was a laughable fraction of it, The shop did 1.2 million in business, and had a payroll outlay of sixty some thousand. We could all stay clocked in over the weekend and it wouldn't make a difference. I'm not mad at them, I just want to make note of the absurdity,
I got a response back from the education secretary about the impending college class. Details will be posted in the pods when they are finalized. Not really helpful, but at least its confirmation that it is happening. I'm daydreaming about it while I fold pants and clip excess strings from bar-tacks and hems.
I'm actually in a relatively good place now. I'm busy, and I don't have any serious problems with my celly even though we'all never be true friends. Its odd, the things we don't have juxtaposed with the things we do. I'm thumb typing on a touchscreen right now, listening to drunken love, but I don't have a room to myself, or a non plastic chair, or tape of any kind. If you want tape here you have to steal it. It makes some art projects difficult, at you can get lucky and peel strips of scotch off of your mail when they give it to you. It all gets fondled, remember, and then they staple or tape the envelope shut again. Sometimes both, for whatever reason,
Now its Adele, someone like you.
What does manic depression mean to me? It means eating your mermaid, and not having her too.
Yours,
William Myrl Smitherman
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