I have as many complaints about my childhood as the next hardened upper-middle-class child with a house keeper, but there’s one thing I can never relate to: kids whose parents never supported them. I was recently watching an episode of the Parenthood and the heart wrenching drama of that particular episode centered on Zeke’s mother never encouraging him, supporting him, or even telling him that she loved him. I sat there like a stone cold bitch. My parents were borderline retarded with their belief in three of the most useless, talentless children on the face of the planet.

No matter what it was I wanted to do, one or both of my parents was there to tell me how good I’d be at it (the best, uncontested) or take me to get whatever gear would be required to excel. Better than that was their unwavering commitment to my ability to do anything. I never once heard them say, “are you sure? Because you thought you were going to be into ____________ and then we bought $4600 worth of gear and you quit because _______________.” (Generally, and this applies to my brothers as well, it was weather or intensity related, or some combination of the intensity in the weather.) To this day, though my lifestyle and choices deviate slightly from those my parents might have made for me, they’re still eager to encourage me. This is a luxury, and I acknowledge that, but it’s also created a bizarre psychosis.

The simplest way to explain it is that I get excited about being able to excel at anything and in turn want to do very strange things. Interestingly enough, none of these things would be lucrative in the least. For example, some of the things I think I would be so good at and would love to try: being a hair dresser, teaching 4th grade, hiking, running a restaurant, managing any number of things, acting, skiing, telling other people what they should do for a living, psychologist, doctor, New Yorker Cartoon captionist, gang member, personal trainer, police officer, barista, and the list goes on and on. My most recent obsession, which has been the object of my desire for quite sometime, is going to prison. I really, really, really think I would enjoy and excel at being in prison.

I’ve always been fascinated by prison. I was desperate for Martha to write a tell all book about her time in prison. Just as she brought the joy of crocheting to the depraved ladies of her cell block, I’m certain I could make friends and protect my purity with a unique combination of humor and subtle psychotherapy. During my recent live threatening illness, I had plenty of time to watch my very favorite prison show Lock Up and it’s juicy and favorable cousin Lock Up RAW. One hour of delight profiling various maximum security prisons or jails around the country and the stand-up ladies and gentlemen who call them home. Occasionally you’ll get an over-crowded or under-funded facility. I try to DVD those for multiple viewing.

After watching a marathon of Lock Up, realized that excelling in prison is about more than telling fucked up bitches whose runnin’ the fuckin’ show once you arrive, it’s about having family who supports you even though you’re in prison.

Imagine my glee.

Not only would I as an individual be so good at being in prison, my family would be a clutch asset. Speaking as a strategist and brand expert, the opportunity to implement my Prisoner of the Era strategy and develop my prisoner brand would be an opportunity beyond anything I’ll ever have at work.

If I were going to put together a Power Point presentation, it would go a little something like this… (First, let’s assume I’m in the Big House for 25 to life for second degree murder. The conviction is mysterious enough to paint me as a bad ass and an unpredictable mother fucker. You want thug life? I killed someone in the moment because I felt like it. It’s also important that my conviction have nothing to do with small children. Bitches get cut for messing with kids.)

Caroline in Prison: Identifying Opportunity and Capitalizing on Brand Equity

Prison is a bitch. (Always have an opening slide that makes people think your presentation isn’t going to be as boring as it actually is.)

Two Audiences: Prison Staff (including guards, wardens, etc.) and Scary Fuckin’ Bitches

First, it’s important to establish a relationship with prison staff. Position yourself as dog with a bark but no bite. Establish understood respect through actions, but maintain public displays of disrespect in order to show the Scary Fuckin’ Bitches how Bad Ass you are. Through the year, invent conspiracies and acts of violence that never happened to establish camaraderie with the SFBs about what liars and pigs the staff is. Kiss staff ass when no one is listening or watching. Learn kids names, without giving them the sense that you’re going to murder their families when you leave.

Assets: Supportive Family = No Lesbianism to Gain Control

Ensure that the family puts money on your books every single week. Not only will it keep you in the company of Doritos and Diet Coke and independent from the prison slop,  Honey Buns are currency. When some chick with a buzz cut starts trying to explore your contours, you leverage your commissary rations. You want a tit? I’ll give you a bag of Combos and two cans of pop. Kiss? How about some Blow Pops and Peeps? Next time Amber tries to swipe your girly bits in the shower, beat her over the head with a can of Chicken of the Sea. Equal parts weapon and consolation prize.

Do not take up religion. Religion has yet to prove a pathway to parole. If you want to get out early, you need to be visible. Religion is not visible enough. And if it is, you’re doing something to make people think you’re crazy. Crazy people don’t get out on parole. They get transferred to a state hospital. There’s no such thing as parole there. Just a bunch of crazy people playing ping pong with their own feces. Poo Pong, if you will.

There are many other factors at play here. I’m really good with hair. Really good. And I can make something out of pretty much nothing. (I cannot stress to you enough how innovative I am. I’m like McGuyvor. Seriously. It’s a talent.) I’ll admit that I need to brush up on my knowledge of textured hair (for my black friends in the slammer) because I don’t want someone to shank me because I’m not an equal opportunity stylist. I could make curlers out of toilet paper and crimps out of paper. Those Scary Fuckin’ Bitches would be lining up at rec time to get an appointment with me. And hell no I don’t take Honey Buns. I can buy my own Honey Buns. You want my skills? You pay me in protection. SHAZAM. Genius.

I’m getting excited just thinking about it.

The key to my prison success, besides my ability to create my very own capitalistic community fueled by the commissary, will be my time management. Keeping my figure will be a priority. Vanity is an obvious factor, but so is being nimble. It’s also part of the plan. People can’t help but respect people who respect themselves. One thing Scary Fuckin’ Bitches are not good at? Keeping themselves. You never meet a scary gangster chick who happens to have an incredible haircut and impeccable style. Eye brows are always too thin, mid sections always too thick, and ponytails slicked back so tight they’ve inadvertently invented a non invasive face lift.

The rest of my time will be spent doing things to better myself and the prison. I’ll become one of those advocates for on-campus gardens. I’ll start a work program to feed the community through the prisons. Plus I’ll eat the shit out of the produce while I’m gardening so I don’t have to choke down the food. I hear they don’t care if you’re a vegetarian. Or a human for that matter.

The bottom line is that I need someone to take me to jail. I’ve tried to get arrested for something silly, a misunderstanding or easily rectified lapse, but I haven’t been successful. I don’t want to do anything that will give me an actual record because then I couldn’t be a 4th grade school teacher, which I would be good at too.

OMG. I bet I’d be a phenomenal prison guard. That would get me into prison.