On the other hand, your good friend, G. Rodney, is always thinking about his duties and it’s gonna take more than a paltry maximum security prison to halt his media reviewing.

I’ll start with what I’ve got. To my left are several literary pieces deserving of recognition. One is partly scratched out and says, “Toby is a fag that sucks more dick than Terry.”

Another, written in scratch marks carved by some handmade shank no doubt, says, “Where’s the pussy?”

In front of me on the stall door, there is an inscription that is a bit speckled in poopoo that reads, “I’ve pissed here, and pooed some, and only once did I cum.”

On my right, there are several bite marks up and down the surface, some splattered blood, more poopoo, and several more messages that outline specific times when one could meet the messages’ author in this stall for various sexual activities.

Overall, the writings keep me quite entertained. I find myself riveted to the walls in here, my face mere inches from the filth that collects on them, but I cannot look away. Stories float before me of prisoners who have come and gone, stories of sexually romantic escapades, quick get-togethers, butt pluggings, knifings and soon-to-be knifings, longings that call out to other men, cries in the dark, escape plans and so much more.

I am lost in the wall’s lore. I recommend this stall to all who are incarcerated and to those who soon will be. Get your submissions in for transfers here and as soon as you can.

I, however, have to leave soon as one of the scribbled messages asks that anyone who is interested in swallowing a bucket of man juice meet in this very stall in several minutes.

Perhaps next month I can review the tally marks on the wall above my cot. It seems someone once slept right where I now sleep for the next twenty-five years. That should be interesting.