I sent everyone at work my death row pen pal’s (severely outdated) website last night: It made Bob sad, Lindsay said "LOL," and Eleanore started lecturing and patronizing me. Oh OK, Pot-Kettle. I should have reminded her that she once married her inmate pen pal, but I digress.
It made me think about this other inmate pen pal I had a few years ago — Aaron. He was around my age and in prison for seven years for shooting a Mexican in the ass. I didn’t like him too much because all he wrote about was the rap music he liked, the skanks with kids who would come to visit him, and lifting weights.
He sure was cute though.
A few months into our postal courtship, and a year before his release date, I got this bombshell in the mail:
I don’t know how to say this. I guess I’m just a chicken shit, and don’t like to say the wrong thing. I guess I like you more than I should. I think you are beautiful and I love your personality. You don’t have kids, and your [sic] normal*. I guess I’d rather be with you than be just friends.
I tried just being your friend, but I want more. I guess I’m greedy, but that’s me and who I am.
So I guess if you and Henry don’t work out, which I’m sure you will, but if not I’d like to give it a shot.
I wonder what he’s up to these days. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, since I have a KID now. God, I’m such a whore.
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