Yeah. I would say I'm living a "prison sentence" Yes I know- I could be "home prisoned" but 1. Hmmm and 2. My parents work. So I have no other choice. So I go to "prison" everyday and serve my time.  Constantly watching the short leg of the clock. Why do people always say hand? Could it be a leg? I don't know.
Prison food is full of hair, dead skin and other bits of body that seems to fall of the dinner ladies. This one dinner lady whom I have nicknamed "tortoise" as she has an incredibly long and aged neck. She also doesn't seem to have any teeth or hearing. I'm pretty sure I asked for mashed potato; however I saw peas being ladled onto my fatty plate. I look at the sick like food with disgust and wanted to throw my plate on the floor but that's spoilt and I am fortunate to be given any food at all.

What to say about the air in the dinning hall. A stench I always dread. You can smell it from the "cells". It's an almost fart mixed with meat, pungent smell. It's sickly and warm. That smell lingers there for the rest of the day, sitting there waiting for its next victim to breath in its toxic smell.
The prison also has its "inmates". Of course. Some are nice. Others brush past you and hang around in big packs like a heard of wolves and when they all stare you dead in the eye, you know you're the one that's the next gossip or punch victim.
Occasionally they play good music; randomly on prison.  I like that. Actually that's a bit of an understatement. I love it. So much my smile stretches out across my face and my eyes widen so much and teeth on show. I used to know what that was called. Oh yeah. Happiness. Weird word. Weird world.