I also pass the time by actively plotting my escape from prison. So far it isn't going as smoothly as I'd have liked. I've asked six guards now for a length of rope and some manner of crude grappling hook. So far no takers. Efforts to burrow a hole out of my cell with a spoon, discarding the concrete in the main yard via my pantlegs, have also met with disaster. A poor communication bridge between G-Murder and I had him securing ample handfuls of sod from the main yard and secreting them back to our cell in his pants. While this yielded little in aid of our escape plans, we do now have a small but well-tended vegetable garden beside the toilet, so I shouldn't complain.
A further kink in my escape has arisen recently: According to G-Murder, we're "not speaking" right now. He's still angry over what I said about his nickname the night before, while harvesting the last of the beefsteak tomatoes. I'd asked about the origin of it, as I'd been genuinely curious, but the explanation ended up being fairly rote and uninteresting. He's committed "1,000 murders," it turns out. G-Murder seemed inexplicably proud of it, but I could barely stifle my yawn. I suggested that a "K" might be a more apt signifier for 1,000 than "G". An etymological debate erupted soon after; things were said that couldn't be taken back; and G-Murder spent the night crying softly into his prison-issue pillow, not even touching the salad I'd made. I feel like a bit of a heel over the whole thing, and when not plotting my escape, I've been making him a little macaroni sculpture of his murders to cheer him up. He'll come around.
Let me clear up any misconceptions about prison life those of you on the "outside" might have: doing time is no picnic. Specifically, no picnics from Monday to Saturday. If you even suggest the idea to a guard of moving Sunday Picnic Day to a different day-even if it better accommodates upcoming events-you'd better be ready to present some darn convincing arguments.