One fine July morning, I broke back into my moms house out in Oceanside, stole a valuable heirloom, and sold it at a pawnshop. Now there was enough money for about a days worth of meth. The next afternoon, I went to moms home to try the same thing. When the police came, I demanded to speak to an FBI agent because I had been secretly recruited via subliminal messaging to act as a clandestine agent at the heart of a sweeping anti-espionage operation. I spent the next 60 hours in a safety cell, naked, surrounded by padded walls and with a straitjacket for a blanket. From there came transfer to a psych ward and eventually to county jail. I haven't talked to the bitch since.