On the drive home (home?) from Albuquerque to Portland, my ex-boyfriend got shitfaced and roughed me up in a Sacramento hotel. I escaped from the room through a blitzkrieg of violence and talked to hotel security, who called the fuzz.

Because he had a bite mark, inflicted in self-defense, on his arm, Marty told the police to PRESS CHARGES OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AGAINST ME. Now I am a felon. Jailors. America's Next Top Model fans, all. As the warden took pics of my bloody knuckles for evidence (!!!! evidence!), he quipped, "So there goes that hand modeling job, huh? What's Tyra going to say about this?" And here is how I was summoned from the holding cell for a strip-search, complete with a thorough plumbing of the boodissy: "Hey, Supermodel! Git over here!"