Love, Justine

Muncy State Prison

May 5th, 2024

Sunday

8:38am

I dreamed about Dubya last night. That I was in love with him and trying to get back together with him. I still think of him every time I hear country music. 

*sigh*

In this book, “Women Who Love Men Who Kill,” these women say that they didn’t have a choice in loving those men, they were just sort of thunderstruck with love. That got my thinking about me and Motorcycle. No thunder strikes there. We love each other–I think–I mean, I know I love him, but…I have a hard time believing that he loves me sometimes. I mean, he says that he does, but it’s just recently that he said he “thought we would make it,” and he stayed in a loveless marriage for 12 years. I mean, should it really take three or four years to believe in a relationship? And the way he didn’t help me when I really needed him to. And the way he somehow saw getting my belongings as a financial opportunity…What the fuck is up with that? Last night he said he took those things of Facebook Marketplace, but that’s probably just because they didn’t sell. He said it was because he “didn’t want anything between us.”

Whatever.

They were for sale for three weeks.

In other news, Bambi wants me to ghostwrite a book about her life. I tol her we could get together at Day Room tonight. She also said she wants to expose pastors who are corrupt for various reasons, so I don’t know if that’s another book, or what. 

You know another thing about Motorcycle? When I asked him on the phone why he didn’t help me when I was psychotic and why he left me alone, his first response was, “Okay, then, you don’t trust me? Why don’t we just not do this anymore.” Like–he tried to break up with me! He’s always saying that he takes care of me and does what’s best for me, but in reality, when it counts, he doesn’t. He breaks up with me rather than take responsibility and face the music. I said, “Oh–THAT’S how you want to handle this??”  And then he changed his tuned and said he was sorry and it would never happen again. I just hate how, when this happens, I’m completely incapable of helping myself and I have to rely totally on other people for help.

It sucks.

It really sucks, because they never come through. 

2:24pm

Daisy was supposed to give me an ecig on Friday and she didn’t, so I 2-for-1’d one. I hate doing that. It’s just wasting a cigarette, and these things are expensive. I tried to take a nap, but it was too fucking loud in here. I called the boys and Motorcycle. The boys were playing a game and had a soccer game in Ridgeway at 1pm. Motorcycle was busy talking about himself, as usual.  It amazes me that he can fill up an entire 15-minute phone call and never ask how I’m doing. I say maybe five words the whole call. I think I’m getting sick of him. Maybe he is just a narcissist, like Gem says. She would know–she’s married to one. I didn’t go to lunch. Daisy gave me some oatmeal to eat, which I didn’t ask for. That was nice of her. I’d rather have the cigarette she said she’d give me. 

I’m gassy and it’s gross. And embarrassing. Ever farted in front of 50 people? Everyone looks around and tries to find the culprit like they’re in kindergarten— “Ew! Who farted??” 

Ugh.

 I’m so sick of being here I could scream. 

No news on the woman who hung herself two days ago. It’s like it’s old news already. Tonight’s dinner is “chef salad,” which consists of a piece of ham, iceberg lettuce, and a boiled egg. Oh, and once in a while, a teaspoon of shredded yellow cheese. Ever tried to eat lettuce with a spoon? Or spaghetti? It doesn’t work. I don’t know how people gain weight here. I’m losing weight, as per usual, which I’m not complaining about. Last time I got out, I managed to gain 30 pounds in three months. Hypothyroidism is a bitch. I can’t eat anything and not gain weight. Now Burgundy came into the room, apparently mad, and said, “When I tell you something, it’s a FACT.” Daisy said, “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” and Burgundy replied, “I don’t know either.”

What.

Ever.

She told the whole unit that I’m a racist, so obviously when she talks about people, it’s NOT always true. Now there’ s tension and silence in the room.

Fun. 

Whatever–back to my book, which references psychiatrist Dr. Money, who was widely discredited as a quack after he recommended that a boy with a botched circumcision be raised as a girl in the 1960s. He also made the boy and his twin sister perform make-believe sex acts in his office later in life. I read the book, called, “As Nature Made Him.”

Straight quack.

Now Burgundy apologized to Daisy and is explaining what she meant. At least it wasn’t me this time. 

Interestingly, in this book, the author finds that all of these women come from Catholic backgrounds. Many had alcoholic, abusive fathers.