Blogger Tyranny and Other Happenings

I'm in! I've been furiously trying to hack my own blog for weeks now, receiving bastard messages of doom, laden with phrases like "joint account" and "feature unsupported" and "try again." All of which created insurmountable frustration and angst, it's fine. We're back in action and the school year has started again, so I'll be back frequently to update you on the going ons of my ever riveting life.

Even more exciting, I'm one of those newfangled I-Phone users, so in theory I'll be able to post more pictures and keep my blog hip and totally awesome. I even have some apps to make my pictures seemingly vintage, upping the cool factor oh, about ten notches.

Quick rundown of what's been going on since April, because that is roughly when I abandoned you for an early summer Hiatus.

May: School ended, moved out of Leonard Bodwell, said goodbye to the girls forever, moved in with boys. I am a City Girl now, just doing my thang in Providence, little Rhody's Big City. I live a few streets over from my dear sweet Allison. Living with boys has taken little to no adjusting, we are all filthy and smelly, and we all prefer beer and food that comes out of boxes, cans and greasy paper bags. Might start callin' myself a bachelor. Went to Florida to kick off Summer of Caitlin. Florida consisted of laying about on a beach chair in 90 degree weather only moving to flip over or refill my drink, if a small native had done these tasks for me I swear it would have been paradise.

June: Summer Sessions were in full swing, yuck. Also, I went to Bonnaroo again which I honestly don't feel like explaining, you can read these posts and check this line up and see the photos below. Any further inquiry please schedule time to buy me a beer, and have your listening ears on.

July: New Summer Session. The course was on the pros and cons of standardized testing, why we have it, how to make one, etc. Exciting. Mark and Mary had their annual banger, big success. My mother did a rendition of Wonderwall, in which the chorus went something like "I'm your one guy Paul." It was a big hit.

August: This was my one month off, I can't remember much from it because I have suppressed nearly all happy memories with the understanding that I will have virtually none until Student Teaching ends. I probably went to the beach, slept eight hours a night, ate three meals a day, exercised and smiled.

September: Went back to school, gained some weight, turned 21, gained some more weight. Barfed in my purse and bailed a friend out of jail towards the end. Despite the prolonged bender that it inspired and several really truly terrible decisions, like giving away a hundred dollars while blacked out on a Tuesday, I had maybe the best Birthday weekend anyone could ask for. Conor was here from Michigan keeping me in line. He reminded me what it is like to shave my legs more than once a month, and taught me that sometimes there is nothing more important on a Sunday than sitting "hard," and watching Football.

In other news, the boys and I have a new addition to our apartment, his tentative name is Meatball but really we don't know what to call him, Rasputin and Rambo seem to fit much better. He is a tiny orange kitten, yeah I know, what am I thinking? Clearly I have bad luck with cats. However, this one seems indestructible and slightly deranged/damaged to begin with. It's like living with a crocodile. He climbs legs like they are trees, likes to be inside the dishwasher, lurks behind corners and under furniture to execute his world class pounce techniques, strikes fear in the hearts of all visitors. The world is his oyster, no object is not a toy, no strand of hair is not dinner. He is growing rapidly and thus becoming increasingly terrifying. If you have a monster cat, please help us.

Today I met with my CT at East Providence High where I will theoretically be Student Teaching, yikes. It was not as scary as I envisioned although one student did approach me, blood thirsty look in his eyes, licking his lips, or did I imagine that? asking "Miss, are you the new student teacher?" To which I hesitantly replied, "Uh, yes, yes I think I might be." Not another word was said, he sauntered away no doubt to plot his overthrow.

Folks, I think it will be an interesting year. Let's stay in touch?

Curiosity Killed The Cat

I'm busy as shit this summer. Hardly any time for the beach between two jobs and nine credits, but I'm making it work. I think to myself, hey, it's not so bad, you've got a pool. People love pools, you could make the pool work for you. If you close your eyes and make Jamie splash around a lot, it might even sound like the ocean. Kind of. So, no sooner do I think of this sweet solution and head to my parents, sunnies in tote and one piece ready (cause that's how I roll), I'm practically skipping into the backyard due to utter excitement, and what do I find? NOTHING. Just a big vast patch of dirt, fully equipped with tiny turds sprinkled about.. I ask my mother, "WHERE THE FUCK IS THE POOL?" "Oh, you mean Ellie's litter box. It's coming in 7 to 10 business days, about 11 business days ago." Damn it.

Flash forward about 20 fucking business days later and like a beacon a light in a dark and dreary summer from hell I see an unfamiliar truck in the driveway it can only mean one thing: Pool boys, aw hell yeah. Things are looking up again. Sexy, sweaty twenty somethings hauling ass, installing my summer oasis! Three of em'! All for the oggling! "Danielle, close your jaw, bugs are flying in" warned my father. "Uh, right.. erm, will do." I began to fantasize about all the summer fun I'd soon be having now that the pool was here. I pictured barbeques with my friends, sunbathing with an iced tea blasting a cool and popular song sure to make the less fortunate neighbors jealous. I'd see them peering over the fence, pretending to water their plants, oozing with envy as I splished about on my floatie. I was going to be living the high life.

But installation took longer than expected. Pool boys don't work like they used to and ours cut out a little early that night. They left the summer wonderland a few inches full and bounced, thinking "ah, we'll fill it tomorrow." Can you see where this is going yet? Are you cringing? Should I continue? Well, some time in the night little Ellie climbed into her "giant litter box" thinking it was empty. You've heard that cats don't like water right? It's because they can't fucking swim. It's not called the kitty paddle, is it? No, no it is not. She used up all her nine lives, one by one, fighting like hell to get out and drowned. To be fair she wasn't very bright, I once watched her jump from the fence to the deck only to miss, smack her head and tank it. Some cats don't always land on their feet. I loved her dearly regardless. Ready for the silver lining, or should I say, lack there of fucking lining? She tore it to shit. The new pool, "my summer oasis", is leaking rapidly. Not that we call it that anymore, now we just call it "the stigma." Yep, so now I have a dead cat and a broken pool. Things are good over here.

It's my own fault really for leaving her with my parents in the first place. See, they aren't cat people. They have a dog, Jerry, he has hobbit feet and a square back. He looks most like my mother. It is no secret that he is their favorite, sometimes I hear my mother in the kitchen talking to him: "Jerry, you are my favorite, no one understands me, have a piece of cheese." Do I ever get a piece of cheese for listening to her bitch about work for 45 minutes? No. Do I ever get a piece of cheese for growing my toe hair out to an offensive length? No. I'm just as cute as Jerry, I smell just as foul as Jerry, but still, she loves him more. And he totally gloats about it, just fucking wallows in the glory of being the favorite. He likes to lay right at her feet at the dinner table, and he likes to sleep in her room, and he likes to sit near my parents when we watch TV and he's been doing it for years.

 Please note my mother's reflection staring lovingly at him.

The only logical thing to do when someone doesn't love you is to abandon them and find someone who will. Fucking, cut your losses and move on. Don't dwell about the cheese. I knew I would never be a part of Jerry and my mother's lives, I needed something to call my own. The first time I asked for a cat was in elementary school. His name was Midnight. I don't remember much about him other than the fact that he gave my mother Ringworm, and I was forced to bring him to the pound shortly after we brought him home.  When we arrived, my mother whispered something to the attendee which prompted her to bring us into the back room where there was one lonely sleeping cat. He didn't move. He didn't look at us, or want to play and his cage read "bad with children." We brought him home. I would find out years later that it was not Midnight who gave my mother Ringworm, nor cats or kittens at all, but rather the flea and tick medication she slathers Jerry in ritually. I try to not hold a grudge.

Nala stayed with us for years, he was 22 years old when my mother murdered him. Starvation and abandonment was the method. She once tried to leave him on the side of the road, but he found his way back. The final time, she posted signs on the doors to our home: "no cats allowed, dogs only." He liked no one and pissed on everything to remind us. His appearance teetered between mangy and walking corpse, patches of his fur would fall off in clumps. He was missing a portion of his left ear. His claws stopped retracting sometime after the millennium, so he often stuck to whatever he was walking across. He had a perpetual stream of snot pouring from his nose at all times; if he wiped it on me, I called it cuddling. His purr sounded a lot like a broken lawn mower or someone with emphysema trying to laugh. He was my best friend.

My sister learned quickly that Jerry was not the "family pet" he was supposed to be. She too, asked for obscure replacements. A tropical fish collection one year, hamsters another. We both settled on Figgs. A sister kitten to our neighbor's cat Domino. Figgs was the perfect cat, she cuddled. She used the litter box. It's easy to be the perfect cat when you're comparing yourself to Nala, who she got along with swimmingly, by the way. But sure enough, I went on vacation and as soon as I came home, what do you think? Gone. "Thunder storm, we tried to get her in, oh I'm so sorry, nothing we could do, no more Figgs." Another one down the tube.

After this tragedy, I figured I better just stick to Nala, who was essentially Rasputin and would probably let every one of his limbs rot off before actually dying. Amazing stamina to withstand my parents pet killing ability, though my mother got the best of him too in the end. It was only when the lock out was in effect that I snuck Ellie into the house, where I kept her hidden for a week. I let Jamie in on the new member to our tribe, and we snickered as Jerry scratched at the door trying to get in. Of course, as my mother's right hand man he ratted us out with his incessant crying. "Cat's out of the bag?" I said, trying to be cute, as Jerry huffed and puffed behind my mother who's face was turning several shades of purple. But it was too late, she was ours.

When she died this week, it was my teary eyed mother who broke the news to me. She said "I even liked her" which I knew all along, and not because she was "keeping Jerry young" and "he's just so lonely now." But because I can sometimes hear her in the kitchen "Ellie, want a piece of cheese?"

Les Luths : Frank O'Hara

"and I am feeling particularly testy at being separated from
the one I love by the most dreary of practical exigencies money
when I want only to lean on my elbow and stare into space feeling
the one warm beautiful thing in the world breathing upon my right rib"

That Is All.

Shipping Up to Boston

Dear World,

There is an alarmingly realistic possibility I end up dead tonight, so relish this post accordingly. I am attending Gogol Bordello in Boston with my hilarious and down right wonderful friend Kayla. She lives in a killer apartment in Medford and is the epitome of everything and anything I ever wanted to be (world traveler, trendy, thin, etc.) We saw Cold War Kids a few weeks ago at The House of Blues and had an awesome* time. Kayla is the perfect concert companion, as she does not suffocate me, drag me to the bathroom with her, or get so trashed she spills her 6 dollar beer on my shoes. And she dances, which is a perk because usually I am the only idiot bobbing up and down, shakin' my thang to the beat. She forewarned me that shit might get hectic tonight and that I should wear a helmet. I laughed thinking "how crazy could it be?" but I've been rethinking it and me in a mosh pit could be potentially disastrous. I have no self-defense mechanism. None. I'd get trampled before I tried to save myself.

You see, I consider myself an avid concert goer, but that's not to say they're always enjoyable. It's an uphill struggle and if I don't devise a plan accordingly I end up furious, counting down the minutes and fantasizing about the benefits of being an unsociable, sprawled out on my floor listening to the artist on low volume. The trick is to first, get there early. Just early enough to catch the end of the opening band but late enough to not end up in the front row.  For me, first row is fun for about ten seconds until some sweaty giant starts clapping his hands above his head only to slam his pointy elbow on my head, over, and over, and over again. Also, I can never remember ear plugs and I'm all set with that high pitched after ring. Step Two, find a stair. The stair is key because it lends me elevation, a liberty my body does not afford me. Then, I can see and hear the concert without constantly shuffling back and forth every time the person in front of me moves their head, talks to someone, arcs to see the drummer, etc. And my feet aren't stepped on because I am on my own little stair and there's only room for one. Third, play the sympathy card. If all else fails, simply tap the shoulder of the person in front of you (males work best), and beg them to switch spots with you because you can't see the show and this is your ALL TIME FAVORITE BAND, whether it is or isn't. Repeat. Do this enough and you will land yourself a sweet ass spot, most likely away from everyone you came with, but with a clean view of the stage and close enough to get spit on by the lead singer.

However, I have a sneaking suspicion none of this will be feasible so I'm treating this as a bit of a test run. I have tickets to see these Gogol Bordello characters two more times this year, once at Bonnaroo and once at Folk Fest. In addition to wanting to live vicariously through Kayla for a few hours and pretend I live in a cool hand painted purple room where lots of city smart sex gods grant me one night stands, I also want to assimilate myself to this "veritable rock and roll army of musicians and dancers." Because, I want to appear rock and roll savvy to appeal to my potential city smart one night stands vs. the scrawny acoustic loving Shakespeare fanatics I'm normally surrounded by. Moving on. Tonight, I'm anticipating blood, bruises, projectile vomiting, and several extremely poor choice decisions that will never see the light of this blog. I'm throwing myself into that mosh pit, and I am going to live. LIVE I SAY! I'm not going to stand on my safe little stair. I'm not going to go to the bathroom when I don't have to for some fucking peace and quiet. I'm not going to check my watch eighty times because it is past my bed time and I am getting cranky. Tonight, I am a young public transportation user, ready for action, ready for adventure. Thus, tonight I might die. Because that is a risk I am willing to take. That is what my alter-ego would do.

If anyone can express ship a few of these to me before 8 pm that'd be mighty helpful.

All my love,
City Slick Girl Fo' Lyfe

*it was almost the opposite of awesome because House of Blues is affectionately coined House of Rules. Those wet blankets line trash cans up outside their building and have sycophants who sniff the empty bottles for alcohol. Said bootlicker then passes the contaminated bottle to his accomplice, who passes it to security, who stalks you in line to see if you are of age. No wrist band you say? Interesting. How old are you exactly? Please step aside. Then a beefy guy in a tight tee tells you his superior wants you to leave the show. He points and this "superior" stares angrily at you through sunken eyes masked by a black hood. You feel ashamed and embarrassed for trying to have a good time. You're also pissed because you chose not to litter, you cut the environment some slack and didn't leave your plastic lying around like some irresponsible derelict. They tell you they're going to let it slide this time but don't go pulling any fast ones the next time you're here. Finally, they take away the of ager's hard earned wrists bands and tell them to thank their sneaky friend for ruining everyone's night. They also act like they did you a real favor by publicly demoralizing you. Bastards.

Tales from the Home

             I worked in the Kitchen last night for the first time in over a year. Nervous that I would forget everything I once knew so well my sweet co-worker reminded me "it's just like riding a bike." And it was, minimal retraining was required, just had to work out a few kinks and learn the ins and outs of new residents I've never served. Don't get me wrong, I love my cushy desk job; there's nothing better than being paid to blog and catch up on homework, but dining services yielded much better writing material.

 When I was first hired almost three years ago, the then Dining Services Director asked me "are you comfortable working with difficult customers?" You know someone is treading lightly when they use a word like difficult, outside a professional environment it translates to someone you should not walk, but run away from before they nag you to an early grave. What he should have said was "are you comfortable never satisfying anyone no matter how hard you try?" "Are you comfortable being called 'little idiot' for six months while a toothless hag spits ground up chicken at you?" "Are you comfortable delivering what your resident ordered twice because they ordered something they don't like and didn't know they didn't like it until they saw their neighbors plate?" "And then once you've changed their order are you comfortable going back a third time because they don't like that either?" I had barely squeaked "yes" before I was tossed into the chaos. 
I trained with Donna who has since been banned from orienting new employees. She used a method called “tough love” which was not unlike the sort of “tough love” you receive from a drill sergeant. She gave me two duties: pass out soup, and refill their coffee. I followed her around like a dog carrying out my two tasks, while she affectionately introduced me to residents as “Damn Danielle, try to keep up.”  The problem was not my ability to do these two chores, but my failure to have not worked there for seven years. Every resident, I learned quickly, is a creature of habit. When you reach the age of eighty, you can no longer be bothered to change, and more importantly you cannot be bothered to explain these tendencies to a pint-sized moron in a bow tie.

Luckily, as an advantage to working with Donna, I was placed in a section where each and every resident is keen on communication. If verbal communication is not enough, body language may be used to express one’s individual needs. Donna introduced me to Nelly Truck, “Damn Danielle, this is Nelly, fill out her menu with her and try to keep up.” 

Feeling as though having been to a restaurant and spoken to the elderly in passing was training enough, I eagerly accepted my new duty. The look in Donna’s lazy eye as her cracked lips let out a loud cackle should have been a warning signal, but I was much too optimistic to notice. Nelly shared almost identical features with Baby Sinclair from the TV series Dinosaurs. She was bald, overweight, wore a diaper, and was covered in spots that varied in color, shape and size. Her manners were identical as well. 

“Hello Nelly, it is nice to meet you. I am new here and would like to fill out your menu with you” I said slowly annunciating every word the way you do with an infant of limited vocabulary. 

She did not look at me. Her hearing aid was making a high-pitched screeching noise that left everyone, but me, unfazed. Willful, I leaned in very close and tried again.

 “Hi Nel-ly. Would you like to fill out your menu?” slower, shouting a little now.

Rapidly, all two hundred pounds of her shifted to face me. I saw then that she had no teeth, and wondered how she would even eat anything on the menu. But before I could further ponder this she screamed through pink gums, spit spackling my face “I’m blind, not stupid. Quit being an asshole and fill out the damn menu.” Progress is progress; I dared not be self-righteous and defend myself now. I carefully read the options to her, ignoring her blatant disgust and low guttural responses. However, when she slowly lifted her coffee cup, my fight-or-flight reflexes began to tingle. They say that when one of your senses goes, the others become stronger, this is entirely true for Nelly. Her aim was dead-on; I had only enough time to crouch below her line of fire, the cup skimming my hair. Assistance arrived shortly, and I was transferred to another table. 

Donna, absolutely revolted by my performance, assigned me to The Gagger’s table. This is a clever punishment, as at first it seems like a reward. The Gagger is very kind, but she has a secret that lurks in the bowls of her. Shaken up from the situation, I did not notice the smell at first. She was so polite, telling me of her grandson, asking me how school was, and introducing me to her tablemates. I thought I had hit the jackpot. I served them split pea soup, and refilled their coffee cups flawlessly. It was right around dessert when I began to notice a change. The Gagger stopped making polite conversation, her entire demeanor had changed, and she was turning a pale green color. A strange sound gurgled below the table, and it was then that I understood my misfortune. Right on cue, I began to gag, I had to excuse myself acting as though I had a chicken bone caught in my throat. The theatrics were incredible, flopping about, coughing and spitting, wishing I had been born without a nose. It was as if I had rehearsed it diligently. Of course my co-workers had experienced this, they smirked behind their vests and non-skid shoes, acting as if I was a fool for never having encountered uncontrollable diarrhea in a dining room setting. As if it was so normal. Bastards. 

Last night was no different. Nelly has since been relocated, and The Gagger was confined to her room (stomach bug, go figure) but there were new residents to please. When preparing for service last night Andy was telling me he served Betty's table the night before and when asking what she would like for dessert she replied "Nothing! I just threw up everywhere" happy as a clam. Sure enough, her shirt was covered. Sometimes, you can't help but laugh. Her 100th birthday was yesterday, she sits with her brother Frank who is 98. The Seasons threw her a banger on Friday, bad karma to have a 100th birthday party early if you ask me, but it ended up a success. Earlier this week I had asked her if she was excited for her party to which she replied "Who's having a party!" And I said "you are, you're turning 100." "Who's turning 100!? Not me!" And her brother chimed in "This girl's going to be 100? I doubt it." And they shuffled away.

Well, Betty and Frank are not as sweet as it seems. They are con artists and instigators. They are on my list after last night. Both ordered the sandwich, and upon delivering the sandwiches they wanted "mashed potatoes" which we don't have, though there was Shepherd's pie. "Frank, FRANK!! You want the taters don't you? What is this thing? What? PULLED PORK? What does that mean?" I don't know lady, why did you order it? Instead I just smiled and said I'll bring it right out. Unfortunately, before I could get away Herman, their table mate decided he didn't want Shepherd's pie, "Miss! Miss? Miss!!!?!?! I WANT THE OTHER THING." Okay, okay I'll be right back. Again, my dirt bag co-workers just laughed. Musical plates happens just about every night. Toward the end of service Frank asked for more coffee. I thought it was unusual because I had given him some maybe ten minutes before and they never drink more than one serving. Then he said "I want you to get rid of this coffee first." His cup was full. The fuck right?

To be fair, this was an easy night. No one barfed on their plate and asked me to take it, no one chewed up their food and placed it in my hand, no one peed on the newly upholstered seats. But boy am I glad to be back at the desk happily blogging away.

People of the Internet

Causeless and unnecessary complaining seems to be a theme on this blog. It started off cheerful and cute, (See Spring 2010 archives) as if I were one of those women who blogs about their favorite new spring line of clothing, or this delicious low cal frittata I was just dying to whip up for my handsome and super sensitive but extremely rugged boyfriend.

Well, the jig is up folks. I hate fashion, I hate changing over my wardrobe, I support spandex as sleepwear, I am lucky to brush my teeth in the morning so fuck me if I've accessorized, I believe a bathing suit bottom is an acceptable form of underwear, I develop scary shopping induced rage that can only be alleviated by the pretzel stand conveniently located on most floors in Rhode Island malls. Granted, I'm not a sandals and socks person so breathe easy and I try to abide by standard rules such as never mixing brown and black, but the girls will testify I am no fashionista.

Similarly, cooking? Fuck that. I try out cooking a few times every year. I am always initially filled with hope and excitement, I picture myself on TV acting as Rachel Ray's protegee, I imagine everyone asking me to recreate that wonderful dish I made last week because they've been just salivating over it ever since! I call myself a nutritionist. Then, within maybe ten or fifteen minutes of returning from the grocery store I need a nap. Food shopping was exhausting. I am guilt ridden by my contribution to the evils of the Food Industry, I think of baby chicks in wood chippers and mutant cows eating others' brains, of Tyson and slaughter houses and cannibalistic pigs gobbling sludge out of their troughs!

I decide I'm not hungry. This lasts maybe 30 seconds, I go buck wild and cook a feast. The abundance of food is good because within minutes everything is up in smoke and I'm lucky if I can salvage at least one thing out of the ash. Someone will say "Is everything okay? Do you need any help?" as the smoke alarm blares, to which I mutter several swear words and dole out rude gestures while simultaneously prodding the charred pan with a spatula. This generally is cause for a second nap. Scarred from the experience, I donate my groceries to science. The potatoes grow eyes, the green beans fester in their own juices, we clean out the fridge and gasp at the dates wondering what the brown and yellow blobs once were.

Where was I going with this?

Ah that's right, I had a reason to bitch. It's more of a general poll to be honest. People of the Internet, does it piss you the fuck off when someone asks if you are sick when clearly you are?

Let me elaborate. I conquered the dirty dishes the other day. For weeks I had felt the sink starring at me, beckoning me to come closer. I smelt it, of course I did, guacamole can only ferment so long before its stench carries into the far reaches of the living room. Still, I ignored it. Finally, in a sporadic cleaning frenzy I cracked. I went for the kill. I cleaned those suckers so good, scrubbed the shit right off them. I felt awesome. Little did I know something was lurking within. A cold. The dreaded Spring Time Cold that rears its ugly head every March and always the week when you've worn your sandals and snow boots on consecutive days. The bastard.

Anyway, sure enough a tickle turned into a full on rumble and I've been hacking up green shit ever since. Though honestly, that's manageable. It's the snot that's getting to me. Do we sound like the type of people who have patterned Puffs boxes lying around? No. So I've taken to using anything from computer paper to paper towels, and once though I'm not proud of it, I snot rocketed our front lawn. (Sorry girls.)

Flash forward to today at work. I'm so frigging nasally that I'm inserting d's into almost everything. It's a cross between a preteen with a palate expander and a white Rastafarian. "Hello, Dhis is da Seasons. How may I--AAAAAACHOOO--help you?" to which someone will respond "Danielle, is that you? Are you sick?" No. No, I'm not sick at all.

I had a tissue stuffed up one nostril and I was struggling to open a cough drop today when a co-worker came by the desk. "Oh! I didn't know you were working, how are you?" "Dever been bedder." "Oh dear, do you think you have a cold?" Funny you should ask, I was starting to suspect that! Annoying, no?

I feel the same way about the weather. If the weather is normal no one says shit, no one wants to talk about partly cloudy. But if the weather is severe everyone has to fucking mention it. The blank faced girl at Reception trying to keep her eyes open after being locked inside the building for 6 hours answering phones has no interest in "My, my, my I've never seen a sunnier day!" Really, asshole? Well guess what I'm not seeing this one. I'm going to rot here, and talk about it with every other jerk off with a pulse who walks through that door. Similarly, if it's snowing or raining or even windy everyone's a weatherman. "2-4 inches! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?" "Supposed to let up around 6, but then rain again tomorrow." Fabulous. And my favorite every time someone hits the handicap button to open the doors "Sweetie, are you freezing up here, it is SO COLD since I've opened that!!!!!!" "HOW PECULIAR!" I reply.

 (The pictures were taken in my holding cell)