You can buy commissary here, and needless to say, I had to get some. As I’m writing this, I am gorging myself on potato chips and Tang. Yeah, I know. A meal fit for a king.
Oh, that’s another thing. My commissary sanctions got lifted somehow when I left Texas. I have no clue why, but I’m thankful. Maybe it’s because the cops knew that I was coming here and felt just a tad guilty for all their “benevolence.”
Finally, let’s talk about the vermin here. And no, I’m not talking about the gremlins this time. If you drop so much as half an atom of Cheetos dust on the floor, expect a legion of ants to swarm in after it. Ants crawl all over everything, and it’s pretty nasty. I sweep whenever the floor starts looking like a moving sea of black pepper. I guess no one ever bothered to teach these guys about the Army of One.
Whatever the ants don’t find goes to the roaches. They don’t quite overrun the place like the ants do, but I see them often enough to wish that someone would add Raid to the commissary list.
The rats do their scouting when the lights go out at 9:00 pm. Expect a recon mission in your cell if you don’t stuff books or sheets under your door. These guys are pros at finding food, and they will instantly scurry into your locker if you are dumb enough to leave it open at night. Even when you catch them in your cell and make some noise to scare them off, they just casually trot away like, “Aw, man, I have to go ALREADY?” Get out of here, you filthy rat! This ain’t the Green Mile.
If you should ever find yourself in federal custody, pray that you never come to the Atlanta Detention Center. The food sucks, the 23-hour lockdown is BS, and there’s enough creepy crawlies here to bother you into therapy.
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