“My Mom” by Christopher

“My Mom” by Christopher

Christopher, 43
Incarcerated: 16 years

March 15, 2023

On March 2nd, I found out that my mom, Mary “Red” died. I have a hard time with emotions and how to release them, so much so I punched a wall and messed up my hand. She was the youngest of eight and crazy to boot. She’s Irish and Scottish with red hair and was a kind hearted person. I got my work ethic from her, she could out work anyone. I remember one time she brought me to her labor union job site after I got suspended, and these two fat guys were smoking and talking instead of working. So, she pushed them out of the way and started to dig the trench they were supposed to dig. I jumped in and started to work. Her boss let me work along with her and ended up paying me $8.00 an hour for the 10 hrs I put in. It’s hard to tell you how much I love my mom. I wish her a happy and carefree afterlife.

Grumpy, 83-Year-Old Cellie by Darren

Grumpy, 83-Year-Old Cellie by Darren

Darren, 59
Incarcerated: 43 yrs

In 43 years of continuous imprisonment my most frightening moment occurred not in the riots, tear gas and bullets I have lived through. The most dominating feature in my 12’ by 5’ concrete demented domicile is an industrial stainless steel toilet and sink. I enjoy this area, 24 hours a day with another human being. This concrete box introduces an intimacy completely abnormal, only at gunpoint would a human being choose to endure year after year. Yet, crippling amounts of guilt and self-loathing for actions of the past force one to endure the burden of living life in prison. That I have a cellmate I call a friend, which makes me one of the lucky ones. Many men are forced to live in their concrete box with terrible, terrible, examples of human beings. My cellie of 16 years, is 83 and extremely hearing impaired. He is the quintessential “grumpy old man,” and set in his ways. He may actually be the author of the phrase “My way or the highway.” Every day his activities are the same, there is no deviation from the routine, at least voluntarily. It is fortunate that prison life accommodates this precept, each day echoes the past, ad nauseam. It is with great surprise when I wake up at three in the morning, to the sounds and smells of my cellie making coffee, in 12’ by 5’, you can do nothing without the other person becoming aware of exactly what you’re doing. Figuring my cellie just woke early – though unusual for him – I went back to sleep. When I wake for breakfast, he is still asleep, he always wakes me up for breakfast. I wake him, he was extremely subdued, which was not normal. I ask him if he is ok, he has a perplexed look, like he doesn’t understand what I am saying. Are you going to chow I ask, he nods his head up and down, yet with a bewildering glance at me he finally begins to get dressed.

When he came back to our cell after breakfast he asked me “why did they hand out a bag lunch with dinner,” I said “because it was breakfast,” and I can see there is no comprehension. It’s at this time I start to become worried, at 83, maybe he is having a stroke or something. I wait for him to do his regular routine after breakfast – coffee, toilet, turn on reading lamp, yet he is aimless, distracted. Now I know something is wrong and I look him in the eye and say “are you all right, do you know what time it is” with a puzzled look at me he says. “Yes, 6 pm.” I say no it’s morning, do you feel ok, should I call the nurse? He grumply tells he is ok, yet I am disheartened because I now know something is really wrong. I can not go to the cops or nurse even though I know something is not right. It’s the code and even my friend of 16 years would be highly upset. He would even move to a different cell if I went to the cops and said my cellie looks like he is having a stroke. The only way it would be right – according to the convict code – was if he was unconscious. When I see a confused look on his face, I ask a third time, and I get the stoic attitude I expect from his normal behavior. My instinct is to go to the cops anyway, but I hesitate even though his actions are making me nervous. My uneasy feelings are not helped when he goes to sleep during the daytime. He sleeps all day long. I jump down from the top bunk twenty times to check if he is breathing. I was alarmed for his well being, anxiety and instinct said act. When he gets up that night my inquiry of how are you is rebuffed with a rambling yet resentful retort just this side of delirium. The grump in the grumpy old man is not there, I see that as a bad sign. My concern is intensified on the second day of nothing but sleep.

My unease is on par with my agitation when I am unable to contact my Mom and Dad after more than two weeks. If a month goes by with no phone or mail contact, I begin to be seized with worry. Every day after – panic and palpitations set in, as I anxiously wonder if something has gone wrong or did something happen. I feel helpless because I don’t have the ability to do anything.

On the second day of no sleep for me, from fear and the constant need to check and see if my cellie is still breathing. I am caught between a fearful and frightening conundrum, call for help – find out everything fine – or wait until the situation is beyond help, either way I lose a friend. The worst thrrr days of my 43 yrs of imprisonment.

It has been six months since my cellie’s episode, though we still share the 12’ by 5’ concrete box, the relationship has changed. I am more his care-giver than his cellie. Thankfully, he does know what time it is and best of all the grump is back in the grumpy old man.

Note: Since you asked, I have been bugging my cellie about going down to the yard to get a photo. He dug through his property and found an old head shot and with a pretty bad attitude tossed it up on my bunk and said with a grumpy rasp: “Here! Now stop bothering me about photos and interviews.” I enclosed a prison-style photoshop on my photo – his head floating in my picture. In real life, this is how I see him anyway. This tiny 12’ by 5’ cell only allows one person at a time to stand up and walk. So when he stands up to walk to the back of the cell-toilet-sink are the last 4’ of the spacious 12’ lot, his head just kind of floats on by. So, for true authenticity, he should just be a floating head (grumpy head).

Life in Solitary Confinement in Central California with Robert

Life in Solitary Confinement in Central California with Robert

At the present time I remain entombed. I am living in what resembles a 17th century sepulcher. In the interior are two cement, platform slabs laying three feet adjacent to each other. The slabs are narrow sleeping quarters for the two occupants. Each has two small apertures hewn on its side for the storage of property. A narrow slit on the back wall serves as a window.

The tiny cell was originally built as part of a containment mechanism for California’s burgeoning prison population. Called a Secure Housing Unit or SHU for short, it was meant to contain the “worst of the worse.” It was shut down due to the brave efforts of prison reform activists. Serving now as a level II institution, I cannot imagine the pain and suffering daily played out in its twenty-years of operation.

My new cell would be stifling if it weren’t for the free movement allowed. The infamous Corcoran SHU now leaves the heavy steel cell doors open from early morning to late evening. This gives the cell’s occupants access to a small dayroom area for the twenty-five cells in each module. Each dayroom contains six stainless steel tables. Two showers are available as well as use of two telephones bolted to the wall. A large television set securely attached high on the wall offers solace to a small group of men who gather daily on two narrow wooden benches. Their faces seemingly upturned in rapturous bliss, one cannot help but envy their fierce devotion to a cause higher than self. A small microwave and cold water tap complete the amenities.

I was here after being beat up by tough guys whose secular views conflicted with my faith. Such is the nature of our times that prison serves as a microcosm for humanity’s ancient, primordial battle between light and existential darkness.

I go before the parole board next month. All will be well, both with the board and my presence at Corcoran State Prison, formerly the SHU.

Red Flag Journals by Dennis

Red Flag Journals by Dennis

Red Flag Journals #4: And the Oscar Goes to…

Since I enjoy watching movies, I have more than a peripheral interest in who will win for best actor- you know, the one who sold their riveting presentation so superbly that it begs the question: Where does the real person end and the actor’s performance begin?

As I reflect upon my own theatrics through the years, I know no one will reward my performances as the best of anything! I’ve played the arrogant cad, irrational thug, unhinged drunk, poor friend, obnoxious co-worker, unrepentant criminal, and abusive boyfriend. I’ve been the extra with no moral compass. My portrayals created chaos, dysfunction, and pain. I was the Star of People’s Regrets!

But no one is born to be the villain. We arrive in this world pure and fundamentally good. Then life hands out its scripts. Those fortunate enough to be raised in a loving, safe, and nurturing environment are better equipped to navigate negative societal influences. Yet those disconnected from their core self are vulnerable to addictions, criminality, maladaptive beliefs, and an antisocial personality. Our hearts are unmastered. We wear masks to cope, and those masks become normalized long after they serve their purpose. The arrogance, hostility, and manipulation are coping strategies, but the method acting validates the disguise. 

I wasn’t born sexist, lustful, abusive, racist, or a criminal thinker; I picked up these subplots by choosing to defend myself from feeling like a nobody. I embodied a character straight from hell’s central casting. False pride contradicted my shame. Violence gave me a swagger; narcissism gave me permission to violate boundaries since the rules didn’t apply to me. Staying in character soothed my fears of inadequacy. I forgot the part of me that was good. Where did Dennis end and the caricature of the toxic male start? Could I ever recalibrate my heart and soul?

When I met my ex in 1990, I fell for her. I didn’t love myself and had only known an indifferent type of love, but I knew I “loved” the idea of her. Fortunately, she wasn’t wearing any masks or we’d both be attendees at a masquerade ball! Her genuine goodness affirmed my resounding irreparability. I acted as if I had it going on, leading with my best “not crazy” persona- yet it couldn’t be hidden indefinitely.

The Bible makes a reference to whitewashed tombs- attractive exteriors, spiritually dead. That was me. I embodied the role of a charming suitor, a chameleon impersonating a gentleman while concealing the dark, controlling sub self. In the interest of becoming her heart’s answer, I was attentive, sentimental, tender, calm, egalitarian; gifts, flowers, “by all means, go, go spend time with your family and friends… I’m not tripping” (Yet). She commented, “You open doors for me, you’re such a gentleman!” This was like a romance movie directed by a poser. I shined in that first year as if I was auditioning to cast a lasting impression. By the time she began to “see” through the cracks of my projections, she had already surrendered her objectivity.

And the Oscar goes to… Prince Charming?

The fiction wasn’t sustainable. Below the surface lay a default setting of pettiness, insecurities, jealousies, sexism, impulsivity, abuse: all easily triggered when faced with losing control.

I could stop pretending. Better to cage and coerce, how could anyone love the real me? I thought it was better to focus on controlling her, rather than myself. Manipulative people have to be fake. Shakespeare once wrote, “to thine own self be true,” but I didn’t trust life like that.

What a stellar performance!  The immaturity, vulnerabilities, toxic maleness, all disguised in the pretense of stoic strength. So, how did this farce end: Spoiler alert: badly. Her life became a crutch for my emptiness for eight years.  The person who showed up for the auditions should’ve been killed off in the second season of “Man-Child Loses a Girlfriend.”

For years I chose an exhausting route based on unreliable inner monologues. I ruined every good thing, sacrificing all to the sideshow that was Dennis. I’m taking my life back.

How do I reclaim the original truth, right and good? I’ve learned to dismantle the parts of my life that were purely performative and strip away the defenses that protected the inauthentic self. I acted like I abandoned faith, hope, and love a long time ago, but they never left me.

Now when I stray off the path of light, I check myself with centering reminders, like watching my daughter be born, kissing my mom’s cheek on Mother’s Day, memories of bookstores I escaped into as a kid, and, yes, that first year with my ex.  I listen to the gentle voice of my authentic self with its promise of unconditional freedom. If I act “fake,” the voice announces, “…and the Oscar goes to…” This is enough to anchor me, to award me in the role of dignity.

Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage, all the men and women are merely players… And one man in his time plays many parts.” I have agency. I can pick my parts!

Red Flag Journals #3: This Is What That Feels Like

I did not want to come to San Quentin. And it is a fact that I did what I could do to avoid the transfer. I was firmly embedded at CMF Vacaville where I made the best of an end-of-the-line kitchen job. At that prison, at least, I could watch the sands of self-loathing run out of the hourglass of hopelessness.

When the counselor pronounced that I was being shipped out, I had the nerve to act indignant; I felt bullied. I didn’t want to go! I was being controlled!

Oh. This is what that feels like.

I may have taken some comfort in the fiction that I was being victimized, but the truth was a lot stranger – I was a hypocrite. In another life I had made controlling others a dark principle. Feeling entitled in my male privilege. I needed to rule partners who could polish my ego and amplify my exaggerated but brittle self-worth. In short, I needed them to be malleable. I’d co-opt their wishes, values, placing them in my personal tip jar of frantic demands and thoughtless, self-indulgent expectations.

The “WE” became “ME.”

The transfer to San Quentin isn’t the only example of capitulation and surrender. It happens frequently here throughout the day. Any resemblance to self-will is dubious and measured at best. I’m told when and where to eat, what to wear, when to shower, get fresh air, come, stop, go.

There is no choice––in doctors, church, or a friend––you take what you can get. I got up this morning and ate another unremarkable breakfast because the alternative is to starve. I defer to this authentic, institution, no, patriarchal power – it is retributive, patronizing but it is undeniable. It is hardly the infantile, shallow brand of “power” I brandished over my vulnerable partners.

Any claim of sorrow, repentance, or amends would probably seem convenient if not suspicious considering the scale of my rash life choices. And I can’t say this isn’t a form of justice; the suppression I put out into the world has come home to roost.

I made cruel decisions so the state has placed me here, in a burnished cage, until I can figure out uncruelty; until I can align myself with society’s wishes, values. Until the “ME” becomes “WE.”

Last night I was ordered off the phone. I felt checked, powerless, and disenfranchised, bossed.

Oh. This is what that feels like.

Red Flag Journals #2: Gaslighting

My recent homework question––”Do you think psychological abuse is more devastating than physical?”––gave me pause before I answered yes. I’m able to give that answer in confidence because I’ve used these years of incarceration to educate myself on the many subtleties of intimate partner violence.

I understand that physical abuse is an arrestable offense and carries with it legal as well as social consequences. But this knowledge doesn’t make psychological abuse any less deplorable; it is an attack on a victim’s dignity, an undermining of their self-worth, and those types of wounds will linger long after the physical fade away. It is a sad reality that I’ve used these types of mental abuse without truly understanding my own dark objectives to tear my partners down so that they are easier to manipulate.

In the last days of our marriage and I sensed the balance of power shifting in Jasmine’s favor, I grew increasingly panicky, resentful and desperate. And entitlement to male privilege has always assured me that I have a right not to feel hopeless. As Jasmine slipped away and the containment tactics failed, I reached into my toolbox for a solution. But it has always ben shallow, irrational box, because it only had room for one tool: violence. I saw a movie once, “Gaslight,” where a husband manipulates and dims the lights in the home. When his wife complained, he assured her that she was imagining things; he was certainly not turning the lights down. His dishonesty was breathtaking. And while his conduct was nonphysical, his attitude and discounting was abusive in nature. I’m guilty, just like this fictional husband, because I was gaslighting Jasmine, manufacturing her reality. “Crazy-making.”

I chose to weaponize both the household income and Jasmine’s insecurities. I cut her off, restricting her access to funds and resources which I knew was a source of independence as well as planning that probably didn’t include me. My goofy scheme of withholding was designed to increase her reliance on me, return my misappropriated power – give it back. My dark strategy, while unethical, had some logic to it. As our marriage deflated, Jasmine’s priority remained keeping a roof over our three daughter’s heads. She wanted better for her girls – much more than the chaos, dysfunction and brokenness of her own inconsistent childhood. I knew this, banked on this – I capitalized on this intimate knowledge, handing her a “crazy-making” script of false financial assurances, mutuality and change that would benefit everyone. I ensured that she would silence her personal survival instinct for a greater good: hope for her daughter’s wellbeing. This trap was all smoke and mirrors, false security.

The irony is I was more scared, frustrated and hurt than she was. I saw another setback, defeat, a loss I couldn’t handle with grace. Prior to this I wasn’t a family man, I was just a man with a family. And now here I was in some terrible fight or flight state, making honeymoon promises about an institution of marriage I had shown little respect.

But here is the secret of unimaginative patriarchy: it is a house of cards. I was the needy one, but I disguised it in bluff, denial and finally desperate rage. I was threatened by her responsible strength which contrasted my shameful weakness.

But in the spirit of Gaslighting, I denied I was scared of abandonment. That I could hold my own hand and get through a tough time with dignity, the way millions of people do daily.

I think about my homework question and it is the wrong question – all abuse is devastating and immoral. But it makes me think of another misguided question that would miss the point behind my tragic choices. I don’t ask why didn’t Jasmine just leave; the real question should be why didn’t I just let her go?

Red Flag Journals #1

December 13, 2020

I’m currently incarcerated for murdering my wife, Jasmine, in our living room. Nothing I write here is intended to justify, condone, or absolve me of accountability for my choice to use violence against Jasmine. It was inexcusable, criminal, and I pleaded guilty because I was guilty. It is my fault. I didn’t know what I didn’t know – eighteen years ago or even threads that stretch back to the 1970s. I was imprisoned by my thoughts before I came to prison. Besides walking the paths of shame, regret, remorse, and guilt, I engaged in the folly of what I could’ve done differently to de-escalate a conversation that went from civil to homicide that afternoon. I am going to share with you the processes that would have kept me seated on the couch moments before I attacked Jasmine.

Here is what I’ve learned in the last eighteen years.

That fateful afternoon I distortedly told myself that Jasmine was the enemy, my tormentor. I was the victim. She was an awesome mother, a good wife, and she deserves better. I didn’t tell myself the right story. I didn’t question if my thoughts were real. I recall the pain of my mother’s sudden passing when I was eighteen: the despair, the tailspin, the loss. But I didn’t recall that memory as I came off the couch and attacked Jasmine, essentially making my three daughters at daycare orphans. I never disrespected my mother or grandmother; I was on my best behavior around these women. So why not my wife?

Toxic Masculinity
I now understand that I was socialized into a warped ideal of masculinity that was toxic in its origin. Sitting on that couch, I not only denied being in pain, but I wouldn’t acknowledge or recognize my primary emotions: hurt, fear, and shame. It was more comforting to let anger bully those feelings and convert them into false pride, power, and confidence.

Seeking Help
I’ve learned about extreme individualism. I didn’t ask for help for my mental health issues because it wasn’t a sign of strength or seen as manly.

A critical component to retaining dignity and composure. By tuning into my bodily sensations, what I’m physically sensing in the present moment, I’m able to be aware of my thoughts without attaching reactive labels to them. I’m aware of aggression and how it plays out in domestic violence. Being grounded by definition cultivates more choices. They include inner dialogues I’ve learned in AA: “First thought wrong;” “Do the next right thing;” “Will this decision affect the quality of my life?”

Domestic Abuse
I understand that even when violence isn’t physical, there are other acts that I used to impose my will on my partners. I didn’t know that belittling, betrayal, harassment, coercion, fear, lies, slamming doors, throwing keys, eye rolls, weaponizing the finances, and heavy breathing are all forms of domestic violence. I do now. I’ve learned that daily life stressors such as bills, unemployment, and medical issues can pressure cook and be catalysts for domestic abuse.

Childhood Trauma
I’ve learned I wasn’t responsible for my upbringing, my own abuse and trauma. Now, as an adult, I’m responsible for my choices. I’m responsible for not seeking a sponsor or mentor to help me reimagine the poor examples of manhood I saw as a child. I was a man-child, needy and dependent. I mentally never left home.
I continually burdened my partners with unrealistic expectations, seeking the parent I never had.

I’ve learned to hold my own hand.

I’ve learned about the shame and pain I’ve carried all my life. I’ve recycled it and I transfer it to others’ dehumanizing feelings. In the past, I never had a problem dehumanizing others. Now, I’ve learned I can’t use my past to justify hurting others. My past shouldn’t be another’s future.

A relationship is not a win-lose zero sum game, as I’ve always approached them. I’ve been taught the concept of time-outs: where mindfulness meets intention in an escalating heated situation. I’ve learned about fair negotiating, effective communication, agreeing on how to disagree. The 48-hour rule where a couple can revisit a disagreement in two days to determine if it is still relevant. I had a family that loved me, the love I always perceived as elusive. My daughters would run outside to greet me when I arrived home. But my mind was shallow and self-absorbed. Now my daughters run from me, eighteen years later. Actions have consequences. In critical moments, it’s not just what is occurring. It’s how the story is being told about what is occurring. After my self evaluation, I realized I lacked the values of grace, humility, fairness, and gratitude.

I’ve learned that starting my own family was a privilege, a responsibility, not a right or accessory. I had a family, yet I acted as if I was a bachelor. I now know to pick a lane and stay true to it. An unacknowledged belief system is how I internalized that women were weak and inferior objects. My narrow-minded sexism and sense of entitlement couldn’t tolerate Jasmine’s standing up for herself. Women existed to tell my fragile ego how great I was. My abusive dysfunction was dangerous. I’ve learned that there are always alternatives to violence. Real men maintain self-control and meet challenging moments with integrity. That the strategies I used to sustain control with women consistently undermined our trust, intimacy, love, and connection; in other words, an equally satisfying, mature relationship.

In San Quentin, I facilitate groups on domestic violence and share these lessons with men who will return to their community and relationships, where I’m transparent in sharing my narrative. Everything I do is about amends, to honor Jasmine. Compassion, kindness, advocacy. I can’t pay it back, but I can pay it forward. Remorse and guilt aren’t silent spectator events. I’ve never rationalized or blamed anyone for my choices that day. That’s like looking in the mirror, seeing a dirty face, and wiping the mirror. San Quentin’s culture of transformation has allowed me access to education, resources, literature, workshops, and self-help groups where I gained insight and understanding into how my anti-social beliefs and actions became normalized; to see the unseen foundation of my attitudes to make the unconscious conscious.

I’m responsible for taking my daughters’ mother.
For Jasmine not reaching her future, her benefit to society.
I rightfully sit in this cell.
I’m a cautionary tale.
If someone reads this in the community…
before a family is annihilated by patriarchal recklessness
before someone is taken that isn’t yours to take
before an act is committed that can’t be undone
before the action that ends will never been unseen
before residency is taken up in these cold, lonely institutions
before tears stain the pillows every night
before the life sentence
before the children have to go to the cemetery to visit their parent
…choose responsibility before you leave the couch.

My Impressions of HoSQ by Eric

My Impressions of HoSQ by Eric

My impressions of Humans of San Quentin from: 

Eric, 62
Incarcerated: 35 years

On Wednesday, January 11, 2023, I was invited by Humans of San Quentin (HoSQ) for an interview following a donation of some of my artwork. My immediate impression was one of inclusion. I felt a warm, authentic welcome into the HoSQ fold from the moment Diane, Sid, Laurel, and the inside team introduced themselves and shared their vision with me. 

There was an atmospheric river-grade deluge that day and many programs were impacted by the inclement weather. HoSQ was not one of those. The outside staff overcame torrential downpours, sans umbrellas, without complaint. When I thanked Laurel for braving the wet conditions on our behalf, her humble response was that we suffer from worse for longer. That selflessness epitomized the ethos I saw embodied in the entire HoSQ team.

While I awaited my interview, I was afforded the courtesy of sitting in on their business meeting, during which I was never made to feel out of place. In fact, there seemed to be genuine interest in whatever input I and other interviewees offered. 

The eventual interview itself was a pleasant process, conducted by Sid, an outside staff member, and Henok, an inside team member. Unexpected circumstances, however, dictated that the interview be abandoned, to be continued at a later time. My subsequent interview, two weeks later, was equally as agreeable as the first. For continuity, Sid and Henok picked up where they left off with the same relaxed and capable style, qualities that seemed to be shared among HoSQ staff. Their conscientious listening carried over even after the conclusion of my interview. Thereafter, I became the appreciative recipient of meaningful feedback for a potential victims impact/amends project I am in the early stages of developing.

After all was said and done, I left the room feeling energized and, more importantly, heard. My overall impression of HOSQ was one of admiration. I am also indebted to Brew, the HoSQ inside team art director, who provided me with the materials to do the paintings in the first place. HoSQ definitely lived up to its promise of giving prisoners a platform for highlighting our humanity.


Ross’s Realisms by Lovette

Ross’s Realisms by Lovette


    1. Bad company corrupts good character. Winners hang around winners!
    2. Be around those who have the qualities you wish to possess.
    3. Don’t hang around gossipers, busybodies & folk who aren’t about anything – if they spend all their time talking about others’ lives – they aren’t doing much with theirs!
    4. What people converse about most lets you know what they’re all about!
    5. How people treat others is most likely the way they’re going to treat you.
    6. HATERS HATE! That’s their nature – if someone hates on others they’ll surely hate on you too!
    7. The way people operate in jail IS how they give it up on the street!
    8. Backbiters, liars & snitches will get you caught up in their mess! They’re NOT to be trusted! STAY AWAY!
    9. If a person’s words and actions DON’T line up- they are liarss!
    10. Books are our friends!



  1. Tell people you love them while you can- NO REGRETS!
  2. Learn how to mind your own affairs and stay out of folk’s conversations – it’ll keep you from a ton of trouble!
  3. Lighten up! Please! Be able to laugh at yourself and be a good sport.
  4. No one can do it but YOU– stop procrastinating & just handle that!
  5. It wouldn’t kill you to learn how to do it yourself now would it?
  6. Explore different ideas, cultures & cuisines– you may be surprised!
  7. Step outside your comfort zone- Challenge yourself. DO NEW THINGS & BROADEN YOUR HORIZONS!
  8. See the good in people- Don’t be critical- NITPICKING IS WHACK!
  9. No more excuses from here on out- THAT’S IT & THAT’S ALL!
  10. People see who you are by what you DO. ACTIONS SPEAK VOLUMES



    1. Incorporate more balance in your life. Take time to chill. 
    2. Always make time for fun & play.
    3. FROLIC! When was the last time you frolicked? Can’t remember? – 911! HANDLE THAT!
    4. Nourish/Nurture your inner child!
    5. Be your Sister’s and Brother’s Keeper.
    6. Take time to listen to others’ stories, no judgment
    7. Give Generously.
    8. Spend Wisely.
    9. Stay in touch with your feelings.
    10. Be compassionate, forgiving, and humble.



  1. Be a pal to someone who’s lonely.
  2. TWITTER’S FOR THE BIRDS! Network the natural way- FACE 2 FACE!
  3. Crack someone up with laughter everyday and don’t forget to laugh yourself!
  4. Look up ⬆ Not Down ⬇Embrace Nature & Creation
  5. Pet animals, especially dogs, it lowers your stress levels and B/P.
  6. Smile at people- Say HI! and Top of the Morning!
  8. Footwear is AWESOME! Shout out Sneakers!



    1. Stop ear hustlin’! Mind ya neck before you don’t have one!
    2. Don’t sell ya soul for rollies, Banquet Chicken or Shebangs!
    3. Commissary whores are whack! Have some dignity, please!
    4. Shut the hell up! Loose Lips Sink Ships!
    5. Stop letting the time do you – Shake off the pity party and FIX YOUR LIFE!
    6. Put the drugs and stogs down before they put you down!
    7. Be involved – in a good way.
    8. GET UP & LIVE!
    9. Winners Never Cheat & Cheaters Never Win!
    10. True Love will always conquer hate!


*Always do the right thing in every situation … it’ll pay off!


    2. Have dignity- don’t be petty.
    3. HELP not HINDER.
    4. Expand your horizons- Look up!
    5. Step out of your comfort zone – Try some new things.
    7. Don’t hate- CREATE something beautiful.
    8. GET OVER IT!
    9. Be polite, not rude.
    10. Look out for your fellow man- it could be you one day down and out, you never know…

*Bonus— SMILE! 😉


  1. STOP BEGGIN’!! PLEASE!! If you can’t afford your habit- it’s time to quit and if you’re being cheap… JUST STOP!!
  2. Don’t USE people.
  3. Learn to wait your turn- that’s how the real world is.
  4. GROW THE F**K UP! Drop the “I DON’T WANNA GROW UP” Toys R’ Us kid syndrome.
  5. STOP smoking cigarette butts for crying out loud – one word… COVID!
  6. DON’T WASTE TIME! There’s too much to do for daKingdom!
  7. Use your God given gifts and talents to improve the world and your life.
  8. Find your purpose and mission in life.
  10. Live your best life over and over all your days on the earth.



  2. Don’t just watch others live their lives- Live yours also- TO THE FULLEST! Wherever you are. 
  3. Learn how to cheer for yourself and BELIEVE IN YOU!
  4. Be inspired and pass it on.
  5. Influence others for the better.
  6. Have high standards for yourself and those in your life.
  7. PURSUE YOUR PASSIONS and dreams.
  8. Avoid folk who disrespect or don’t appreciate you.
  9. What you allow is what you cosign to.
  10. Respect yourself and your fellow man/woman.



    2. Quit gossiping and GET A LIFE!
    4. Be a VICTOR not a VICTIM!
    5. Learn how to manage your time and funds well.
    6. Don’t be wasteful- help somebody out!
    7. Develop some fun hobbies– find good uses for your hands.
    9. Be Thankful- DAILY! PASS IT ON!
    10. Don’t be greedy- SHARING IS CARING!
    11. HUGS HEAL!



    1. NEVER let your dreams die… you’ll follow soon after.
    2. FIGHT for who and what you love.
    3. Persistence pays HUGE dividends!
    4. SHOW ME THE MONEY! Shout out Jerry Maguire!
    5. If you can’t make it happen-don’t waste my time! RESULTS RULE!
    6. Find something beneficial to do with yourself- FOR GOD’S SAKE! Don’t just take up space!
    7. REFUSE to be a sore loser- it’s just SPADES, damnit!
    8. Be a winner at LIFE and help others win too!
    9. Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say!
    10. Do things FROM THE HEART.
    11. There’s No Future in Fronting! — “FACTS!”