Writing Exercises, Manic Episodes, and “You Don’t Kiss Me Like You’re Straight.”

MUNCY STATE PRISON

March 14th, 2025

Friday

11:32am

Exercise: Write in the third person as if someone else is describing you:

Everything about her was average except for her piercing pale blue eyes. She was of average height and weight, and her wavy long hair was an unassuming darker brown shade. Her face was pretty in an asymmetrical, plain sort of way.

She seemed to have a permanent, ethereal air of sadness about her, as if her entire existence had been an exercise in bone-deep grief.

She sat cross-legged on the top bunk in Cell 14 of the Bravo-Bravo Block of SCI Muncy State Prison for women, pensively writing in a black and white composition notebook, looking around every once in a while for inspiration.

Her clothes were state-issued brown, like her hair color.

On the outside, she was usually a blonde or a redhead, or some combination of both.

Her entire existence was muted in this place–this soul-sucking, vacuum-like hellhole–also, much like her hair color.

On the outside, she was not average.

On the inside, she was just another state number dressed all in brown.

Exercise:

Create a character study by writing a list of everything that reminds you of that character:

She was shorter, with a slight, athletic build and short, steel-grey hair cropped close to her head.

Her face looked early thirties, but her hair belied her age–in fact, early forties.

All of her features were small, from her hands and feet down to her diminutive but perfectly placed teeth. 

She was an immaculately hygienic germophobe, and prided herself on her cleanliness.

She loved everything soccer, and had been semi-pro in a past life, before a tragic car crash and incarceration had robbed her of her dreams and of her freedom.

Her face, although young-looking, betrayed a chronically worried attitude, as if her entire life had been pock-marked by traumatic events. Her big doe-eyes were greenish-brown, and always looked mildly afraid, as if she was constantly on guard against being hurt emotionally or physically.

Seemingly the only time her eyes softened was just before she kissed me, when she would smile a half-smile and tilt her face slightly upward, as I was taller than she by two inches.

It was in those few, fleeting, mere moments that she trusted me, if only for a fraction of a second. 

I cherished those moments.

The rest of the time, it seemed to me, she would return to low-level hypervigilance, waiting for the next blow to land where it might, even though I had never intentionally injured her, physically or otherwise…

(ZUKO)

She was taller, with beautiful, wavy, auburn hair tied up thoughtfully in a bun. She sat on the metal bunk, meticulously sorting through piles and piles of coloring pages, always searching for the perfect one for someone else, never for herself.

She had stunning, piercing, pale blue eyes that would look through you when she spoke to you, always honestly and exceedingly frank was her demeanor.

She had a flat, dry sense of humor, and would say things with a completely straight face and then watch, bemused, at the ensuing hilarity she had caused. 

She never really slept, only dozed off briefly when her body demanded it.

There was a sadness about her that only accompanies a bereaved mother, a black grief cloud that seemed to envelope her. I got the impression that her whole life had been hard, as if she had passed her nearly fifty years by climbing, scratching, clawing her way out of one pit just to fall head-first into another, already bloody and broken.

She managed to smile anyway though, her blue eyes shining sometimes.

I could never be sure if her happiness was sincere or if there were tears behind it, like diamonds unearthed from her battered soul.

(PAULA)

Note: Paula died in 2026 of cancer in prison.

Zuko said to me today, “You don’t kiss me like you’re straight.”

I supposed I was wondering what she thinks of me, if she perceives me as an authentic sort of person or not. She thinks I was waiting for her my whole life, which struck me as very brave of her to say.

She might be right.

11:12pm

Holy fuck.

I am so turned on I can’t sleep.

The way Zuko kisses me…I can feel it in my toes.

She gives me butterflies in my stomach, something I haven’t felt in MANY years from somebody kissing me.

I always want more…

God, I hope there’s more.

On the radio–

“We fell in love in a hopeless place…”

March 15th, 2025

Saturday

12:56pm

Paula did a description of me because I did one of her:

“So, I’m sure this will not be exactly what you were wanting but fuck it!! 🙂

Here goes!
WARNING: Will contain swear words, expect spelling errors lol and back and forth from cursive to printing.

First I think it’s important to let you know I truly honestly go out of my way NOT to speak to any persons named Jessica, Jessie, or Jess that identify themselves as women/girls…WTF ever!

But I am absolutely glad I met and talked to you. I’m sure your mother didn’t have it planned to name you Jess. I’m thinking Jess was just a quick name you got stuck with.

You are like no other Jessica I ever met! 

So moving on!

When I first met you when you lived with Daisy I thought you were going to be like her since you lived with her for so long. I seen you laughing, dancing, doing funny stupid things, which I thought at the time I could never live up there with you guys.

Too much going on all the time.

But now I see that maybe you really needed those dance-off funny times to keep you out of your head. To keep you present.

Since you moved downstairs I have gotten to know you…a little.

Not completely haha.

I think moving down here wasn’t good for you. It’s like you’re so very depressed down here. We don’t have fun. We don’t laugh much. We DEF don’t have dance parties but holy shit would I fucking laugh at Melanie if you all did. I wouldn’t participate just know that. I’m too embarrassed for that.

Hmmmmmmmmm…maybe Melanie is the bigger person cause she’s so stupid she doesn’t care how people see her like I do. (sidetracked I apologize)

When I look at you I see this beautiful woman who has the prettiest curls, (omg I was going to say the bluest eyes but all the sudden I’m not so sure they’re blue now.) 

I’m such a loser. 🙁

But my point is I always thought I bet this girl doesn’t know how pretty she is. She fixes her hair and does her makeup to feel beautiful when she’s already beautiful. But if it makes her feel better then I’m glad for her.

Stupidly enough (you’re going to laugh) I tend to think about how people look in a bathing suit or what kind of bathing suit they may wear because of their personality. But in that craziness (if that makes any sense at all) I’ll bet you rock a bikini with that awesome body you have especially after 5 yes 5 kids wow!!

I’m ever so jealous haha.

You always are writing + everything you write is so fucking PERFECT. But like me and my coloring we criticize everything + think it’s not good enough. So next time you think something you write isn’t good enough think about how great you really are because you are truly great Jess!!

As mean as I am (or try to be to Melanie) you are still good to her. You have a bigger heart than I can have for her in our situation.

So…I am still not saying what I need to say or what you asked me (or I offered to write about).

Ugh…you’re beautiful with amazing curls, you have a nice body, you’re very intelligent, your words touch ppl (not in the nono places) HA HA, you have this sadness about you too that I still see through your smiles (real or fake) and even when you’re laughing.

You worry about your kids a lot which tells me you’re a good mom. Your life seems to have not been so good to you through all the medical stuff + the 3 husbands.

You try so very fucking hard for Zuko but it will never be enough. 🙁”

I guess that was the end of her assessment of me.

Here’s a note I gave to Zuko a couple of days ago: 

“You want to know how I feel? Okay–there’s this scene in the movie Hitch where Will Smith is trying to teach Kevin James how to kiss the woman of his dreams, and Will Smith says, “You lean in and go 90% of the way, and she comes the other 10%.”

So they decide to practice on each other, and Will is the woman. So Kevin James puckers up and leans into Will Smith’s face and Will looks the other say, bats his eyes, shakes his head, and says, “No…I’m just not…I’m just not feelin’ it, Albert.”

So after a minute or two of this, which feels like an eternity, Kevin goes the whole way and kisses Will, and Will explodes– “YOU DON’T GO THE WHOLE HUNDRED!! MY MOUTH WAS OPEN, ALBERT!! PFLEGCH!!”

And angrily walks away.”

March 16th, 2025

Sunday

10:39am

“Writers are people who have cultivated an honest inner life.”

–Sarah Shourd

Prompt:

Write as if you were a tear from an eye–what is your journey?

A single tear formed in the corner of her crystal-blue eye and threatened to spill over and track down her face. She was broken, ragged by this point, staring at her moribund baby son lying on the apathetic couch. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in seven months, not since the baby was born, and the past two weeks has been especially hard with the hospital stay, the subsequent hard-won fight to get him out of the hospital, and his seemingly unrelenting and agonizingly slow march toward death’s greedily awaiting arms. 

The baby was ragged too, tattered and torn, what with the genetic skin condition ravaging his tiny body.

“Epidermolysis Bullosa!” the pediatric dermatologist had proudly pronounced when he was born, as if it were some majestic and grand regal title, and not a death sentence, like she now knew it was.

Perched on the arm of the couch was a hospice nurse named Dan, who was quietly and gently, persistently explaining to the mother, Jess, that babies are “programmed to live,” and that this was why the baby, Ethan Tyler, hadn’t died yet.

Jess couldn’t understand for the life of her why Ethan was still alive. So much was wrong with him.

A vet tech by trade, Jess had seen many animals die from much less destruction, but Ethan just kept living, the death rattle in his chest notwithstanding.

Jess had been fighting to keep him alive since the second he was born with this insidious and profoundly rare genetic condition, aptly referred to in knowing circles as “The Worst Disease You’ve Never Heard Of.”

Through all of the specialists and the bandages and the blood transfusions, she had hoped against hope that Ethan would somehow survive, but now, finally, she was done hoping and she had given up.

Now at the end of this brutal and bloody journey, all her hopes centered on an end to his suffering, a white flag begrudgingly raised to end this torturous war.

She finally snapped, and shrieked, “I just can’t take this anymore!” at the unsuspecting Dan, who seemed startled by her outburst.

The tear finally spilled down her face, and landed on her helpless and useless hands, hands that had done their very best to keep her first-born, her one and only child, alive.

She was admitting defeat, and Ethan seemed to hear her final admission–the last thing she would ever say to him–and so took a last serrated breath.

His chest never rose again, and she immediately experienced a bittersweet relief that his suffering was finally over. She leaned down and kissed his mottled face, as beautiful as ever, even in death, and her tears bathed his war-torn skin, like diamonds from deep within her battered soul.

3pm

Zuko in response to me talking about Dubya and our bedroom problems:

“Well, my dick is always hard for you, baby.”

Funny.

Zuko shared some of her journal entry from today:

“I went to wake her up for work + gently touched her head + said “Good morning, Sweetheart.” She rolled over and smiled + said, “I missed you.”

♥️She’s adorable. 🙂 I made us dinner cuz it was pouring out. She’s warm + dry + fed. I do my best to take care of my wife. ♥️♥️I love her so much. 🙂”

I love her.

March 18th, 2025

Tuesday

4:45pm

I went to a mental health appointment today and the lady asked me if I’m on the same meds at home. I said no, usually I’m on Wellbutrin. She said nonchalantly, “Oh, yeah, you’re more likely to have manic episodes on Prozac than Wellbutrin,” like it was no big deal.

WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK???!!

Then she said it “wouldn’t make sense” to put me back on Wellbutrin, since I’m leaving soon. Lady, I’m not fucking leaving for THREE MONTHS!! What if this keeps happening? That was terrifying!

THAT’S!

WHY!
I’M!

HERE!!