While in jail I liked listening to the different voices at night. All kinds of accents bounced from the cement walls back and around and through again. Someone wanted a porn magazine passed to him. Another sang a song. Someone was doing push-ups a few cells down. Jokes were being told by faces who couldn’t see the intended ears. All while I laid on my top bunk thinking about how my college classes couldn’t teach me about any of this. I loved it. I still do. I love remembering it. Shame? No. The only shame I come upon concerning my having gone to jail was, and is, from family members embarrassed of me. I laugh at them. They are weak. They were always weak. I learned as much in jail as I did in my four years earning my business degree. School of Management, baby. At the very liberal State University of Massachusetts in Amherst, MA. Where they love to tell you how to think. Life is a funny thing. A sad thing. A beautiful thing. Sometimes I think I should tell my full story. But then again, fuck it.