January 23, 2025

An overly curious county sheriff keeps following me everywhere I drive in Northern Idaho. He warns me to stop using meth, a habit I picked up a few months back after I retired from a federal R&D lab. He pulls me over every time I drive the truck I bought from that ex-felon. Meth and common sense don’t mix, and I couldn’t wrap my head around the importance of getting new vehicle tags.

I had the absurd idea at the age of 64 that using meth would be cheaper than Ozempic for reducing body fat. In the end, it turned out to be so much more costly in every way possible. Once a respected government portfolio manager, I now found myself homeless with every avenue for financial support a dead end. No one trusted me with pocket change for Ramen noodles.

Trap House Tommy worked with the police to take me down. Tucked neatly behind bars, I watched in horror as he stole my money and my identity. I was arrested in my shelter from Idaho winter weather—a rented U-Haul truck. A month prior, I slept in my upscale apartment. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

There were too many sheriffs observing my arrest. They photograph and catalog each of my many body tattoos. When asked the theme of my illustrated body, I matter-of-factly state, “gorgeous men.” That brought a raucous round of laughter from city and county law enforcers.

These weren’t prison tats—my skin was inked by artists in Georgia and Texas back when I had a wad of disposable income and couldn’t imagine a life behind bars. I spent my life on the straight and narrow path of doing whatever family and peers claimed was “right” for me. I had no prior arrest record and was a decorated veteran.

Any fears I harbored that inmates would pick on me because of my tattoos or the fact that I was gay were quickly dispelled; they all compliment me on the great artwork and my courage to be my authentic self.

A sheriff-in-training wasted an hour in freezing sleet to remove 14 bracelets from my wrists as if there were razor blades in each. All I can think is whenever prison lets me out, I will be forced to wear that fuzzy pink sweater at least three sizes too small with my midriff showing. If I get fat in prison, I’ll look like a pink Hostess Sno-Cake twisting my way down the prison exit in mismatched clogs and with my ass crack showing. Meth addiction certainly hadn’t improved my fashion sense.