So, I wake up at 3:00 am this morning and this is my plan. All I want to do is quietly sneak out to the laundry room and wash a few clothes. I make every effort not to make the slightest bit of noise as I know all the other convicts in my unit are fast asleep enjoying their solitude. All’s well until the nutcase Sutton wakes up and does the Thorazine shuffle to the restroom. And immediately, men start to stir. This idiot has no idea how to pick up his feet when he walks and to worsen matters, he bumps into every other locker along his way and trips over a broom. Once through pissing on the wall because he’s too drugged up to find the urinal, the psych patient in question sees I’m doing laundry and decides to mimic me and do some too. Fumbling around, he attempts to open his locker. After fourteen tries and a lot of cursing, he finally remembers the combination to his lock and slings his locker door open with a loud clang.

And did I forget to mention the shithead prison guard who just came through and wanted to know why everyone was already awake? Thinking inmates were drunk, he brought in his breathalyzer kit and made six of us blow. Fortunately, no one had been drinking. Yet if the machine could have tested for idiocy, five of the six of us would have went to the hole for being too stupid to breathe. What a true waste of oxygen some of these men are. Soon as the dickwad correctional officer went on his merry way, I went to the restroom to brush my teeth and shave. Staring in the mirror, I could see the security guard, the inmate not the CO., squatted down in a shitter stall staring through a small peephole in the door. With my toothbrush still in my mouth, I turned and rudely kicked the door. “Get up off your haunches you freak and take your happy ass back to the dorm!” Cursing me in unintelligible gibberish, the bald headed, half naked looney tune ran from the area and crawled under his sheets. Sam, now awake and standing beside me brushing his teeth, just laughed and laughed and laughed. Nothing ceases to amaze either of us living on this floor.

Yes, as I’ve mentioned before, some of these dicklicks wouldn’t have sense enough to pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel. I’ll be so glad when Sutton gets out of prison next month. Maybe then I’ll be able to get up in the morning without him following me around. And the queer? Guess what he’s doing now? He’s taking cherry Kool-Aid, mixing it with water, and putting it on his lips as lipstick. Thinks its some of that Maybelline “Wet Diamonds” lipstick and it’ll get him laid. In another container he’s water downed some blue M & M’s to be used as eye shadow and his painting his eyelids. What a sick and twisted freak of nature this mother fucker is. Sutton, the security guard, the boxer and the queer. What a variety of stupid assholes we have here! Thank God it will be time to go to the library soon. Just one more hour before chow call and a bit of fresh air and food. Fresh air in high demand as the security guard just cut a succession of farts. Hope you’ve enjoyed my insight on what it’s like waking up in the pen. More to come! As I remain … Tripper, a guy doing time in federal prison. Better Days!

This is a repost. It was orginally posted “Friends Only”, but by now everyone that reads Tripper knows he’s going through a process. Part of the process of accepting life living on the straight and narrow means getting some of this stuff off his chest. Going through feelings of hopelessness and the God aweful Jones. Chasing his deamons if you will. Enjoy, and please remember, comments and kudos are welcomed and needed!!  This is a deep topic, but if you feel you can share here, please, leave your story as well, give it to Tripper straight and how it really IS to live life clean and sober. Better Days, The REP

My oak table top is pristine clean. Sitting atop are the following items: a bag of cotton balls, a fresh box of Arm & Hammer baking soda, a pair of hemostats, a Bic disposable lighter, the death card from a Tarot deck, a 6″ section of metal coat hanger, a double edge razor blade, a pint of 190 proof pure grain alcohol, a shot glass, a pocket knife, a wet washcloth, a new chore-boy pots and pan scrubber, a glass test tube, a fresh glass of cold ice water, a glass smoking pipe, and one large bag of pure powder cocaine hydrochloride. I’m ready. I tear off a small piece of chore-boy and roll it between the palms of my hands forming it into a ball. I clip the hemostats on the formed ball of compressed copper. I light my Bic and burn the shiny material. Black smoke rises. I make sure and burn the ball until all the copper color is gone - the chore-boy is sooty black. I allow it to cool. Then I roll it between my palms once again until all the sooty black residue is gone and my smoking screen is complete. I stuff the screen tightly into the glass bowl, packing it there from both sides. Placing the glass stem to my lips I test my smoking device to see if it works. Time to cook.

I put the large blade of my Kabar pocket knife in the bag of powder. I dole out two or three blades of cocaine, probably about a gram all total, and place it on the table. With the glass test tube in my left hand and the death card in my right, I scoop up the powder cocaine and carefully pour it in the dry test tube making sure not to spill any. My heart pounds and my mouth waters. I sprinkle a small amount of Arm & Hammer onto the wood. With my razor blade I take a bit of baking soda and place it in the tube with the coke. Taking my pinky finger, I dip it in the glass of cold ice water. Then I drip water from my finger inside the test tube until the cocaine/baking soda mix is saturated. I watch it bubble and become moist.

I take a small piece of cotton and expertly twist it around the tip of the piece of coat hanger. My makeshift torch is complete. I pour a shot of PGA in the shot glass. I dip the cotton tipped torch in the alcohol, pull it out, then light it with my trusty lighter. I then slowly, slowly wave the torch beneath the test tube carefully heating the glass. A small amount of soot from the torch gathers on the underside of test tube and I wipe it away with the washcloth. The powder mixture begins to heat, rise and climb the walls of the tube. Slowly I wave the the torch under the test tube a few more times. I hold the tube close to my left ear and listen to the Contents sizzle. Then I hold the tube up to my nose so I can savor the sweet smell of the cooking cocaine knowing my finished product is well on its way. Anticipation.

I begin spinning the substance in quick circles to the left. With my pinky I drop a few more drops of ice cold water into the mix. I sniff. I spin. I examine my masterpiece. Then I cook some more. The cocaine sizzles, climbs the walls of the test tube, then suddenly makes a final fizzing type noise turning from a solid into a liquid finally descending to the bottom of the glass. My heart pounds. My hands shake. With my left hand I carefully place three quarters of the bottom half of the tube directly inside the glass of cold water and I spin. I spin the tube to the left. The centrifugal force now causing the liquid concentrate inside the tube to start forming into a rock. I add a little more water, remove the tube from the glass and spin, spin, spin. I hear the hard rock hitting the sides of the test tube. I lightly heat it one last time to make sure all the cocaine has formed together in one single rock. I spin, spin, spin … and listen to the beautiful sound of the hard rock gram of coke hitting the sides of the tempered glass. I check to see if the water surrounding the rock is clear. Then I take the washcloth and wipe the last of the black soot from the bottom of the tube away. Placing my middle finger on the closed end of the test tube and my thumb at the open end, I quickly turn the tube upside down allowing the contents to suck up to my thumb. Slowly I tip the tube sideways where the water falls to the bottom but the rock stays near the top. With my piece of metal coat hanger I drag the rock from the tube dropping it onto a piece of folded tissue. The rock dries. My heart beats in anticipation.

Placing the now fully cooked rock of crack cocaine on the table, I take my blade and cut it into several small chunks, or individual hits if you will. I pour more pure grain alcohol into my shot glass and dip my torch into the liquid. I place one of the rocks on my pre-prepared chore-boy screen inside the crack pipe bowl. I light the torch. I put the pipe to my lips and I apply flame to the rock ever so carefully. I barely allow the flame to touch the rock and I draw slowly through the stem melting the rock into the screen. I watch as the thick vale of evil white smoke fills the pipe’s chamber as I steadily pull with my lungs. After the pipe is completely full of thick white death, I remove my finger from the carberator hole and quickly inhale all the smoke clearing the glass smoking apparatus completely. Shaking I sit the pipe down on the table and close my eyes.

The taste is superb. The feeling starts to hit. I hold the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can then slowly, very slowly begin to exhale. Not much smoke comes out. I’ve ingested the bulk of it. My ears start to ring and my heart beats wildly. I start to experience an extreme sense of euphoric bliss. I start to rush, I hear a train moving down the tracks, the desired effect is complete. My blood pressure rises. I rush. My dick gets hard. Then slowly but surely my heart rate starts to return to normal. Oh what a feeling. There’s nothing like it in the world. I look in a mirror on the wall. I see death. My eyes are wild, my facial expression blank, my cheeks are pale. Then I grab the pipe and repeat the process. The second hit is even better. It’s the strong one. It’s the one that rocks my socks. It’s exactly what I’m looking for.

I smoke for what seems like forever. I have sex with my girlfriend. My house is a disaster. I eat and drink nothing. I draw all the curtains and close all the shades. I unplug the telephone and crank up the air conditioner. I smoke, I rush, I get my dick sucked. I only leave the table to take an occasional pee. Three days pass and I finally make the conscious decision to quit smoking. I swallow six blue Valium and knock down a shot of whiskey. I hit my last rock of crack cocaine and cum in my girlfriend’s mouth one last time. Then I look for sleep. I crash. I’m out of it. Thirty-six hours later I awake with a chemical hangover and a four day beard. I shower, shave, brush my teeth. I eat a half a sandwich and start all over again. I am sick. I am twisted. I am a coke junky. I am a coke freak. I take a huge hit off the glass dick to start off the day. I start to black out. I have chest pains. I lie back and start going down that long, dark tunnel toward purgatory. I know I’m dying. And I begin to pray.

“God, I know you’re going to take me. And that’s okay. But please, just one thing before you do. Let me finish hitting the last of this rock. Let me use the last of my cocaine, then you can have me. It’s all I ask.” The prayer of the coke smoker. What a sick and twisted life I live. What a worthless existence. I recover from the hit and I do not die. I continue to smoke until finally all the evil white rock is gone. What a sickness. Oh how bad I feel, how worthless, how utterly stupid and how sick. Cocaine is evil. But I love it. I am a junky. No drug on the face of this earth has ever had its hooks in my like sweet lady cocaine. Someone save me. Someone help. I am Tripper and I have lost all hope. If you haven’t ever smoked crack or free-base cocaine, take my advice … don’t do it. Better days.

Anyone still enjoy good old snail mail? I was just thinking about that today. In today’s computer age, despite e-mail, text messaging and all the other cool ways of communicating with others, there’s still no greater way to say I love you than in a letter. All women like receiving love letters. Or at least I think they do anyway. There’s just something about the written word. Passion and intimacy can be related via paper and pen like nothing else in the world. Personally, I enjoy writing letters. To me whether sending or receiving, a love letter says it all!

       Tenderness, charm and character. Happiness fulfilled! One’s feelings ex-pressed on stationary from the depth of the human heart—insight into the writer’s mind and soul. Personal, confidential, revealing, romantic thoughts. Undying devotion to the one love. It all comes together at the stroke of a pen. Over the years, I’ve composed hundreds of love letters to my lady of the day. A million times your faithful Tripper, oh how I love and adore thee like no other woman alive. Do any of you ladies out there enjoy love letters as much as me?

Just the right touch, passionate feelings, carefully chosen words immersed in intimacy. Yours eternal and better days ahead, my angel, my everything, I dream of you day and night. Not a moment goes by that you’re not on my mind and in my heart. Oh what immeasureable joy is is for me to be able to write this love letter to you and … receive one ever so worthy in return. I confess my love to thee this dark lonely night sitting here in prison. You are the sole light that brings me love, warmth and happiness.

     Struck my Cupid’s arrow of love,  I long for the day I can touch your sweet face, stroke your long, beautiful hair and kiss your soft, moist lips! Please love me forever and always as I love you. Though I can’t be with you now, know in your heart I see you when I close my eyes at night and hope to meet you some­where on the airwaves. Hopelessly devoted,  smitten and intrigued; you are the one and only love of my life and I shall remain your servant and lover until the day when darkness finally overcomes me. Please, accept these words as true.

My private pleasure is to write to you. I’ll never let you go. Although miles between us, rain, sleet, hail or snow, I cannot live without your love and this love letter I know will somehow make it to you. I miss your smile and your eyes that mesmerize. So very fine,  the only woman for me is you. One day soon I’ll be able to show you the true way I feel. But until that time, these special words on paper are all I have to offer. Yet, in them, are my utmost secrets, dreams, desires—written in a whisper to my goddess so beautiful and rare.

    Oh the enthusiastic affection I send to you using paper and pen. In love and enamored, using the minutest detail, I appeal to you in written word—senti­mental feelings, wanton of your heart, mind, body and soul! A craftsman filled with sexual desire, I hope my letters make you blush and cause you to feel the warm attachment that comes with them. As,  in the end,  I hope our game of love is to be won without the loss of a single point. Yes, my love, my darling, my dear. No woman alive holds a candle to you!

Your closeness I live for, to hear your heart beat and to enjoy the perfume from your neck and between your breasts. To watch you sleep and smother you with passionate kisses. Oh how I want thee. Please wait for me my darling dearest, as one day I’ll fly home with a dozen red roses in my hand. I’ll never love another. Your name above my heart, no man alive could ever love you the way I do. Please love me forever as I will always love you, and  …  constantly check your mailbox for more love letters from the pen!

 I’m Tripper! Better Days!