I tell you truly — it's a good thing for me that they've got a library with a computer in this bughouse. Because, for a person like myself whose very life depends on her well-honed narrative skills, it's essential to have an audience to try her material on before she uses it at The Gig. That audience would be you, gentle readers of this so-called "Dirtblog". It's thanks to you, however numerous or few you may be, and to the internet, glorious forever wild WestWorld of crackpot notions and tall tales, that I get an opportunity to "open out of town", so to speak, and thus increase my chances of buying myself enough time, day by day, to figure a way out of the mess I'm in. Thanks to you and also, needless to say, to Walter Becker, whose website I am hacking in order to put up this little page without leaving a trace on the piece'o'shit Windows machine here at the hospital. Aloha, Walt! Love ya, man!

It's like this — I am, and shall continue to be, a committed patient here at the Makapu'u Community Mental Health Center for Ladies for as long as it takes for me to be evaluated and found either fit or unfit to stand trial for my so-called "crime". It's up to a certain Dr. Clayton "Sonny" Kanaka to assess my mental condition so as to determine whether, in the matter of State of Hawaii vs. Daley, I was motivated by my own "free will" — a ludicrous concept — or by some pathological compulsion — now you're talking! — when I allegedly broke the law by amputating the right thumb and index finger of Detective Earl "Buddy" Gomes, Jr. The notion of whether or not I was able to distinguish between "right" and "wrong" may also come into play at some point. I certainly hope that it does, because I believe that, with a little luck, I will have no trouble whatsoever convincing a fair-minded mental health professional such as Doc Kanaka that what I did was not only utterly just but absolutely necessary, under the circumstances. Certainly Buddy knows and acknowledges that I did the right thing, and I am convinced that this would or should count for something, except for the fact that he is in a heap of legal trouble too.

But it's not the court or the law that I am most afraid of right now. The real danger for me is that I will be transferred back over to the Women's Community Correctional Center in Kailua. Buddy's old lady is also incarcerated there and, should I go back into Population over where she is at, my life won't be worth a nickel bag of Maui Meadows Green. She's not particularly smart, mind you, nor is she particularly dumb. She's certainly no beauty, at least not by any esthetic standard I am aware of or can even imagine. But she is strong as an ox, vindictive as hell, and has absolutely no sense of humor, about herself or Buddy or anything else. Also, she moves pretty fast, for a big woman. And she's got lots of friends.

Rest assured, on the very day they send me back to the slammer, I will be done for. They're sure as shit gonna throw a nice homecoming party for me — kind of a rough and ready Bachelorette Party, if you get my drift, with me as the guest of honor and the entertainment. Normally I would not necessarily be opposed to that sort of thing — they don't call me "Any Kine Sista" for nothing — but, for the finale of this particular shindig, I will be carved up like a Balinese decorative pineapple. No question, if Big Luli and her crew ever get another shot at me, I'm history.

So at whatever point Doc Kanaka loses interest in my case and has me transferred out, I am finished. Kaput. Pau. You can tell the whole tribe back at Ulu that they'll never see their beloved Cher (or "Little Diz", as I'm known to some) and her mop of curly red hair, laughing eyes, easy smile, perfect tits, spectacular ass, and good-enough legs, again. Did I mention freckles? Freckles, allover freckles and no mistake. They can take my clothes down to the Goodwill in Kahului, they can divvy up my patch and all my lab gear and even my beloved gas chromatograph — they can paint my whole damn place red white and blue, if they want to. If they dare.