I watch as they mix my coffee for me. That little brown straw with a stripe along the side I am not allowed to even have. There isn't much you can do with it. Well that's not true- as you can tell from their methods I describe, they are keeping themselves safe from me. The coffee is so weak, I'm basically drinking watered down tinted milk. God forbid they stimulate any of us in here. How disastrous that may be.
Over the weekend we lost another member of the jumpsuit squad.
"Happiness is slavery" as Reznor puts it and slavery is bursting at the seems here among these stone walls. I fear that Zues himself won't be able to keep these pillars from crumbling much longer.
Sid was in his cubical and had his arms tide as he always does. It's actually quite a feeling being strapped back like that. Even if your not diagnosed **CRAZY** but wrapped up in the jumpsuit you'll look crazy soon enough! Your arms eventually go numb, your pecker feels as if it's been shoved up your own ass. The floor always tastes terrible when your laying face down on it. The smell of feces, urine and foot odor stings the nose.
Sid had it down to a science. His flexibility was astonishing, like watching a wounded animal break dancing to get upright. Some lemmings just crawl and whale because they can't make it work. No one really knows what happened Saturday, but Ponce told me that Sid's arms may not have been fully buckled and he decided to go the way of autoerotic asphyxiation. Sid was always a ladies man here if you know what I mean. Always up for a sexual challenge. There are worse ways to die in here and his style was the first.
I toast to you Sid with my turd colored water, may your soul ping pong down to the levels of hell. You got off easy you sick pervert.