Or being able to tell the difference between hot and cold. A lot of people always ask to take away their pain, but would rather just be ingrained with the pain's experience. Not so much for this little girl, who's suffering from CIPA, an inability to react to painful or noxious stimuli.

I don't want to lose the experience of the pain of having to go through incarceration. It's actually not too bad; I get a visit every week with my parents, with whom I'm closer to than ever before, and I get to eat and read and lie around and pretty much live a very blue blooded lifestyle. Hell, I still get to blog, so what's the big deal?

I think the real experience is watching my bunkmates leave, when I consider myself more rehabilitated than them. If my driving under the influence makes me a menace to society, then take away my ability to drive (by means of suspending my license) under the influence (by not allowing me to be in an establishment where alcohol is the primary item of sale). Seems fair. So what the fuck about this extended stay here in Camp Disneyland?

Steve, released this weekend, was convicted for domestic violence, and is gone. How does spending time in furlough address such matters? Is it the fact that he's separated from his wife? Wouldn't a restraining order to the same? And what of his ability to manage his anger? Wouldn't counseling be equivalent for free men versus incarcerated men? Hell, on the day of his release, a guy across the hall decided to fuck with him during one of the outside the door counts, holding the doorknob to prevent Steve from coming out. Did Steve, having been rehabilitated in the eyes of the law, learn to control his rage, and in a manner conducive to nonviolent resolution, opt instead to walk through the other room via the adjoining bathroom? No, in fact, he ripped and broke the fucking doorknob. I'm the one stuck with a room with no knob. Glad to know he's released.

And what of Anthony? He was at a fast food joint, and ran a kid over in his truck and then sped off, and the cops caught up with him in the morning. He constantly expressed his desire to "fucking kill those kids" if he ever saw him again. Glad to know he's released.

At times I feel like Andy in Shawshank: quietly earning wisdom against a backdrop of extended time. Being in prison really appeals to my meticulous nature, but it provides me with ample fodder to be cynical toward the idea of whether man actually gains judgment through experience, mainly because experience (gained through exercising poor judgment) is often not recognized for the pearl it is.

Nine weeks down and thirteen weeks to go; see how epic those numbers seem when spelled out? I feel pain, to be sure, and my body reacts to hot and cold within its normal bound of faculty. Here, indifference does battle my heated passion, and misdirected rage is blunted by my icy stoicism. Time in Camarillo has taught me to meet my experienceful stimuli head-on, armed with the ability temper those extremes.