Yup, still in this crappy cell at the Anchorhead Minimum Security Detention Facility. It's been days since I've seen the suns in the sky, felt the abrasive sand scrape against my little flashlight eyes, eaten anything besides what my cell mate leaves behind (...and I don't mean uneaten food either...eeew!) It's been three days since I used my one call to get a hold of my Uncle E'eooti. I left a message on his machine but he still hasn't come. That can only mean one of two things: He's either in the high canyon area scrounging for his roadkill taxidermy collection or he's in the bathroom. Gods, I hope it's not the latter.
Fluke Starbucker did offer to come by and bail me out once his mission to Jabba's chateau was finished but I'd sooner believe Qui Gon check himself into drug rehab before I believe fluke has enough money to even buy a stick of Innergalactic Gum. (No offence, Fluke, but the last time I asked if you had any credits you said sure...street credit.--Who do you think you are, Anakin?) I thought about asking Master Yoda to bail me out also, since he gave Fluke a lift, but I don't think he will. He's always had a kind of "short persons complex" when around me. (I am, after all, four inches taller than him.)
But sitting in this cell has given me plenty of time to think about my life (and where everything went wrong). We were a poor family living out in the middle of nowhere. Where most jawas live in the back alleys of cities or giant trailer park clusters (called Wynn'na Bay-gos), my dad packed up the family and settled smack in the middle of the dune sea. He said he wanted to get away from it all. I told him we're on Tattooine...we are away from it all!
For most of my childhood, me and my fourteen other siblings lived in a converted Rl-2 Landspeeder Stationwagon where the closest store was a beat-down 7-11 five hours walk away. ...and there's no way I'm going to walk that far just for a Bantha Berry slurpee!!!
We were poor, alright. My dad's job as a part-time ottoman for one of the Hutts didn't exactly bring home a lot of pay. As a result, toys were fue and far between. The best thing we could hope for on our birthdays was either a pail and shovel or a Pet Rock. But having so much free time allowed me to get into trouble. Unfortunately there was no one else around to see it. But as I got older, this allowed me to get into some other kind of mischief. (the kind that might make young jawas go blind if they aren't careful.) Which brings me to my adolescence...
eh? Looks like someone is opening my cell door. I hope that means I'm finally out of here and not another strip search. I mean, seven times a day seems a little excessive, but what do I know.