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1My Tale
2By Jacques Jacob
3
4Day 1
5
6Here begins the tale of somebody not nearly articulate enough to be telling a tale. I have no voice and upon reading the initial line back to myself, I hear nothing but the droning voice of an over-indulged adolescent. Just a blank emotionless droning noise complaining and whining and expecting something. Wahhh. A giant pity party, nevertheless, I have taken it upon myself to write out my days starting with today and possibly missing a day or two in between. I’m unemployed and a recent college graduate, for what that’s worth. I’m a man if you could deign to even consider me a human. I’m spiteful, vindictive, and incredibly weak. For example, I have taken it upon myself to get out of the house during the day and not bother my parents with my sulking. My presence is generally irritating, and this includes myself. I despise my thoughts, and the stresses that compliment them. Whenever I feel something, I instantly become furious and wish to leave my body and berate myself for pulling my usual bullshit. However, I don’t like to analyze too much because then I’ll have to think of some excuse for behaving in the same manner even after the most acute introspection, and of course genetics never suffices.
7
8Today began as usual, I got out of bed and pretended to be a stoic. Those poor saps that take me seriously, ah how I pity them, but of course they most likely took very little notice of me. I imagine standing around a group of guys, nodding my head, and speaking in platitudes every so often. “It is what it is.” Yuck, that behavior disgusts me. The first instance of such occurred with the train conductor on my way to the city. He comes by, asks for my ticket, and being myself, I naturally take my time in getting it out (perhaps this is not a faux-stoic example). A boring story that leads nowhere, let me relay some more interesting dialogue. Hmmm. So, I arrive in the city on the vast platform and look left and right at all the busy people. I wonder where they’re going. I had a coffee, so naturally I’m very horny, so I decide to devote the next hour or two to picking up girls. A cute one to my left, but she’s on her phone. Another to my right, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Finally, I see somebody that piques my curiosity, but instead of acting on it, No, no, no that would be two good, I spend the next hour following her to give her the opportunity to speak to me. I think she catches me out of the corner of her eye once. I smile but pretend to be busy and coincidentally walking in her direction, broad-chested and straight-backed like the stoic I aspire to be. She eventually turns into work, a large glass building that attempts to be modern with exterior of giant brass balls on pedestals and with all-white ceramic flooring, ceiling and walls and strange green shapes every now and then in inconvenient locations (Naturally, rants will be present in this work, but such an archetype of the angry loner mad at the world fretting about various trifles disgusts me just as much as my faux-stoic stature, so I’ll withhold my criticism of architectural impracticalities in the name of ‘art,’ and instead manifest my rage at more serious matters that must be addressed later on), and I have lost the woman of my dreams. A slender brunette with an equine face, a gray female suit, loafers or work slippers as I like to call them, and large oval eyes. Her lips were adorned with distinct red lipstick and her head was almost triangular with her front being one of the sides as opposed to the entire triangle. She was beautiful, but perhaps she’d have been too bureaucratic for me, thus making my consternation warranted.  
9
10After that embarrassment, I decided to get another coffee. The rest of the day was uneventful, I went to a movie, took a giant dump, and cried for a bit in the park where I was spotted by a negro child. I had to shoo him and his friends away, but not before they finagled a dollar out of me. Sadly, I remained seated yearning for an older teenager to spot me and comfort me like what happened to Pessoa or Kafka or Buzzati in their later years, but of course that did not happen. I am far too young and not nearly insightful enough for that anyways, so it would just be a waste. Finally, I went home and decided to look for jobs. I wouldn’t have much luck because of my inherent hackneyed disposition and my lowly major and lack of internships. I was a film major and I did fine, a 3.2 GPA, but was much too arrogant with my professors. For a while, I was going to switch to philosophy and go to law school, but I liked the idea of complaining about my major in a bar to strangers more than actually having a set plan, so I kept the film major and remained blowing off assignments due to my insouciance and latent eventually blatant disdain towards my professors. I don’t need some bland academic telling me Satyajit Ray makes great films with their pseudoscientific analysis about the mise-èn-scene and what not. Who am I kidding? I’m too sad to be bitter and I don’t actually believe any of that, except the bar part- the sybaritic tingle of indulging myself with several shots of vodka, a cute girl, or an earnest affable young man is good. It’s just good nothing more. I wonder if I’ll ever be happy, but in all honesty such a ponderance hadn’t occurred to me in many years, so it’s safe to assume I’ll always be miserable (insofar as I am actually miserable now, which is most likely not the case due to my inclination to discuss myself and overexaggerate my own despair which is hardly anything more than residual teen angst and rational young 20s worrying. Although, I don’t buy into any of that easy reductivity, yet I’ll sit complacent with such an analysis for the time being), and I am entirely to blame.
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12
13Day 2
14
15Today was a bit better. I went for a drive around my county with my eyes set on amorous passion. A quaint schoolgirl, an embittered housewife, or a detached bureaucrat would all suffice. However, nothing of the sort occurred. 
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17
18
19Day 3
20
21I went for another drive today, but it did not go well. I told my parents I was going to the library, as they do not like me driving aimlessly (bureaucrats and intellectuals that they are would never understand something like that). They’d have to take a picture or talk about it at a dinner party if they did anything of a spontaneous nature, or relatively quaint, like having a tour guide in Costa Rica instead of a Keroauc-esque adventure, you know the sorts of thing these bureaucrats do. So, I went up about an hour from my house to Fishkill, New York because I’d never been there, and it interested me. I drove up, and there was nothing there. I was hungry and eventually found a pizza shop. Large Hispanics drenched in perspiration with white shirts and black trousers, and an elderly woman in funny garments- an oversized hat, a black blouse with white circles on it, and a purple bag- served as the occupants. This woman was obese and a sad sight, as she also wore large brown sunglasses to cover her tears, which seeped through and rolled down her cheeks. She had to use tissues to wipe them away, perhaps I could have comforted it, but in all honesty not a soul would like that. I tried to comfort my sick sister, may she rest in Peace, and well, rationality is hardly a philosophical school worth pursuing. If there’s any regret I may have in this pathetic life it’s in instances like that, to destroy one’s youth and project my gross exaggerated meticulously calculated pseudo-pessimistic vanity on others, ah how grotesque I am. Maybe she understood I loved her, but I really am just better not speaking at all. Our voices are like loaded guns in these heavily censored times, and even outside times like these like isolated asides in life trapped in time such as with my sister in that dreary room, words much like genetics never suffice. 
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23Back to today’s events and may any flippant or obnoxious sentiments professed here be due to poor writing as opposed to an indifference on behalf of my beautiful eternally youthful sibling. I used to eat for fun, but now food disgusts me. If I could eat once or twice a week, I think I would. I’ve already cut back a lot. I need a massage. Anyways, I was in there and had a coke and a slice, and it was fine, forgettable nothing special. Then I got in my car and drove around some more, but my car got a flat tire. I knew it would happen too; I had been worrying about this in the pizza shop. The most embarrassing thing would be to explain what I was doing in Fishkill to my parents, so I thought I’d just tell them I was buying drugs to save trying to explain to them what actually happened. Somehow, I think that would be less severe. Luckily, my father foreshadowed this by giving me a card to call the week before, and the guy came and fixed it no problem, then I drove home and played the music extra loud in order to not hear myself crying. 
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25Day 4
26
27Well, I hadn’t written in a few days because I’m a Production Assistant now. I want to puke, I feel like that bald-headed hack David Fincher. I’m alone and hopeless and stood there like a hapless idiot all day. Everybody talked, acquainted themselves, told personal jokes, and I just stood there overwhelmed. It was like a giant conveyor belt and everybody’s gesticulations and verbalizations were handles used to move forward the item. Their jokes were pre-ordained, and it felt unnatural. Ironically, the picture, in its pseudo-Linklater charm and perhaps a vestige of Salinger, is about some college girl trying to find authenticity only to be bloated with contemporary politics and a nice platitude, at the end, disregarding all youthful angst. I wonder how many people realize they didn’t overcome this angst, but just forgot about it and moved along on the conveyor belt, kind of like how I’ll be forgotten soon.
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29Day 5
30
31I had off today, but I decided to go to the city anyways to meet a friend—a guy I went to college with, but, really, he’s only a friend you have if you have no other friends. We were to meet at Grand Central, I arrived 30 minutes early and decided to listen to music with my headphones in. While I was standing and thinking about the attractive girl to my left, I was suddenly accosted by a man about my height with an inscrutable face and black bushy hair adorned by a beanie hat. He was wearing a red jacket and old jeans while holding two train maps in each hand. He approached me and I immediately noticed various shapes of green on his knuckles, a tattoo of sorts. “Hey man, do you mind helping me for a minute,” I heard this after taking off my headphones while he waved to get my attention. I assumed he needed directions by the way he was wagging his map and pointing his finger at them, so I got excited about showing a tourist my vast knowledge of the Metro-North System. “So,” he rambled for a bit with many digressions and verbosities not leading to any point, “I’ve been here for three hours… Mom’s in hospital…. Dad’s dead…. Need train money to get to Long Island to see them.” “I can’t help you,” I replied. “What. What do you mean? Why not?” “Uhhh, what do you want me to do?” “Oh,” he laughed and then attempted to explain again, “I have 6 dollars here and I need 20 for a train ticket, so could you go to the ATM and get the money for me? I’m not going to rob you or anything.” “Uh, I don’t want you to.” “What, why not?” his brow raised, and he was clearly agitated. “I’ve been asking people all fucking day, some guy just threatened to spit in my fucking face, if you do this, I will kiss your feet.” I started walking away. He followed and I saw a sign for an ATM machine and stopped in my tracks. “I can’t do this.” “What? Why not?” “What do you want me to do again?” I deflected to play dumb, hopefully Abimelech would get duped. “What do you not understand?” “So, you have no money?” “Yes, my card is maxed out I’m fucking stranded here, I understand why you’re like this, but I’m not like others. I just need to see my mom in the hospital,” Then he said something about PayPal and a construction or deli job that I couldn’t quite understand. “Fine,” I said annoyed. We started walking towards the ATM when my friend arrived. “Is this fucking guy with you? He’s been trying to get your attention,” Abimelech said, and I saw my friend right beyond us, legs splayed out in his big hipped gait. He had a curt haircut, and wore brown khakis, and an orange jacket. His olive skin and massive head always gave off the pretense of severe stupidity, so his presence was not enough to offset the rancid stranger. “Yo what’s up dude, how you been?” my friend said. “Hey, I just need to help him out with the ATM,” I realized how stupid I was when I said this and assumed it must have been a trick, so I looked at friend and told him to just walk away, so we just left. Hopefully, the stranger would cease to exist once we removed ourselves from the interaction or he would get the hint. “Don’t fucking walk away from me,” I heard immediately once I embarked on this noble plan, “I’ll spit in your fucking face if you disrespect me like this. We were having a nice conversation and then this fucking guy comes,” he said while pointing at my friend. My friend still confused about the situation just stood there dazed and head cocked to the left, as if his detached veneer was incapable of being removed even at death. “What?” my friend said.  I felt tentative, and looked around for police, but there were none to be found. Hopelessly I sighed, then in inconsequential vexation said “God fucking damnit…. How much do you fucking need?” while simultaneously taking out my wallet and handing him a twenty. “There, happy?”  I said. He muttered some bullshit “Thank you…. Been a bad day… parents both dead…. Here’s the change,” and to my surprise he handed me back the money in his hands, which I later counted to be six dollars. Annoyed, I disregarded this, took the money, and walked away with my friend. I thought about running back there, tackling him and getting it back, but decided against it. I then saw a policeman and considered saying I was robbed. I considered telling him the stranger took out a knife to save myself some embarrassment and give a reasonable excuse for giving into his demands. “Hey, give me 20,” knife in hand, “And here’s your change you fucking rat.” Salvia is hardly noble though; I wish he had a gun, at least a knife. Maybe his knuckle tattoos were prison tats. He was twitching and looked to be on drugs, so maybe he was dangerous after all. That would be excusable, my mind can’t accept being subservient to somebody without the proper credentials. I could give a shit about the 14 dollars, but I needed a reason to justify it. Charity? Hardly, I could care less about his problems, hopefully he and his parents rot in hell, and his robbing of me only amplifies that conviction not creates it. No, compassion would not suffice. Maybe, I could reverse the roles and say he was dependent on me, but I still let him disrespect me, so that also would not suffice. I give money to women online all the time, so why is this different. A British woman used to bully me and make me give her 50 dollars every so often. That aroused me though, this was different, so masochism would also not suffice. I imagined myself as an elderly secular Jew, the business or academic types like my mom’s brother or my dad, but I couldn’t deign to view myself in that manner, so I had no grandiose reason to attach to my mind for doing that, and much like youthful angst is forgotten and thought to be rectified, the same must happen in this instance, unless I evolve and could accept that I just responded to the situation at hands and we’re all weak in a sense, but I’m no philosopher.
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33As for the dinner, it was trite and forgettable, much like most of our dinners together. The food was terrific, but nobody cares about that at the end of the day. I wish I could be one of those guys who has midnight dreams about the quality of food that night, but instead I cling to various vanities such as lack of success or trying to rectify my inherent weaknesses, like the one Abimelech evinced earlier.  We then went to get drinks, my friend whined about his girlfriend, and got furious when I said marriage is either a social strategy or two equally pathetic people getting together because they don’t have the courage to face loneliness or a lack of meaning on their own. I guess he thought I precluded myself from that, but I’ve fully accepted I’m in the latter. I then thought about my parent’s marriage. It was clearly the former, but now they despise each other and only stay together out of obstinate obligation. My brother and I would both have benefitted from their divorce, but they occasionally use that to justify it, when in actuality it’s just the same as teenage angst, they don’t think about it or when they do they assume it’s been solved, so they never fully go in depth about it. I wonder how people could actually do that. All-in-all I am a very lonely man and have no reason to go to my production job tomorrow, I’d rather walk around Grand Central and threaten to spit on people for not giving me money for my train tickets.
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35Day 6
36
37Back to work today, what a bore. I’m furious, listening to these pretentious directors and actors talk about film and ‘art’ all day is sickening. Nobody makes cinema anymore; everybody is a coward that preaches moralism and conformity. If it’s not a Marvel action film, then it’s a soulless implicit remake of Bicycle Thieves or La Strada with a quota for various politically correct issues. Of course, all of this serves to shift the blame from the rich to the poor whitey in Mississippi. Even socialism has become a capitalist tool insofar as Marx has become a tranny retard concerned with distribution and not societal overhaul. Oh, but overhaul could only mean replacing all the white servers with black servers. Who cares about “diversity” when your life’s purpose is to produce comfort to obese whales? The great man of the past is now a salesman. As if the rich ‘white’ Jews face any consequence from this outrage or the ‘oppressed’ lives would actually become better through these shallow changes. We are all too complicit, especially cowards like me who allow it all to happen, say nothing, do nothing, and actively participate in society. Got to love these “brilliant and rebellious” academic socialists though. Fortunately, the mutant Che Guevara’s are concerned with cars or are fitness gurus on Instagram, so it’s just the intellectuals with their fancy cars, strange glasses, and effeminate ineffective unappealing mannerisms. Socialism is the system, political correctness is the system, and you’re just reinforcing the system because you are not smart enough to meaningfully protest. Of course, any philosophy concerning the well-being of the masses is a philosophy to be ignored.
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39
40Day 7
41
42So, I finished the week and had today off again. I don’t wish to remark on the picture at the moment. I woke up late and never felt fully conscious all day, which is true for most days but amplified much greater when I get less than seven hours of sleep. I got a coffee, it made me feel dehydrated, but I probably deserved it. 
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44
45Day 8
46
47I remember when I was a kid and dust particles would fly in the air from above and around the vent. I would always think they were candy and try to eat them. One day I even did this in front of my confused aunt. Looking back at that moment, an extreme sadness overcomes me because I know I will die soon, and it was completely forgettable and inconsequential. Nobody remembers it except for me and when I’m dead nobody will remember it at all. I’d love to experience that moment again, instead of experiencing the shame in what that innocuous kid grew up to be. I wish I could remember the context of it or what I did the rest of the day, yet all there is that moment and another from either the same day or week of grimly getting in the car to go somewhere. My aunt was visiting, which generally meant family troubles. Something was probably up. Those tenuous asides from my childhood that felt so dire mean absolutely nothing now. I wish I could remember every moment of my life: on the swing-set in my youth, going down the slide and racing my brother, swimming against my sister in a race (terrified of losing to her), and getting my first voicemail from my father. The fortunate thing is sometimes they creep into my conscious, which is all I have to look forward to. It’s as if there was something to care about in life back then, but now I’m just a slumping sack of meat existing in spite of every reason not to. However, I’d imagine if I thought of something from only a week ago, I’d view it in the same light, so my sentimentality is just as vapid as the present. Sometimes, I also experience nostalgia when I’m living through a moment as if I’m forcing myself to pretend to enjoy life. Essentially, I view life through Roy Cohn in Angels in America: a powerful man, highly reputable, but actually a withering faggot. That is what life is, one bad secret waiting to be unveiled, unless you have no secrets, but then you probably have no power. But even still, the secrets of my parents I stumbled upon far too early hold the law to be true and disprove the lack of power, so maybe the opposite is true and power is solitude, and solitude is the only way secrets can’t be unveiled because the only person to uncover them would be yourself, and it’s easy to let myself down, I did it every day until I lost all my expectations. Of course, I still have some pride, so there’s a few karats of disdain to inflect on myself in the coming years. Yes, life is best to be lived alone: maybe in a dark room facing loneliness head-on. I just miss being a kid, not actually a kid, but being youthful in spirit I suppose. 
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49Day 9
50
51I have a girlfriend now. She’s not much, but at least I don’t need to feel insecure about that anymore. She was an intern on the set, about average height and thin. A typical white-women, eerily cheerful, kind of a loser, dull, but attractive. She doesn’t have much to say, but neither do I. I think our first conversation was the best, both of us insecure, yearning for a connection, and then the rest of our relationship has been an attempt to justify that interaction. We’ve been dating for a week. She was at the food table; I went up to her and said some bullshit line that I can’t even remember, and she laughed in her scrunched-up manner, eyes almost closing, a bizarre gesticulation, she may have grabbed my arm, who knows? We talked for about ninety minutes, if I could feel anything, I’d say I felt a connection, overjoyed, but I feel nothing, so I filled in the blanks and simulated a connection, and thus I have a girlfriend. 
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53Our first date: Starbucks, she got a coffee of sorts, I got a cold brew. We talked about our aspirations, of course hers is directing, but she’s not sure. She loves Kubrick as all young women do. “Have you seen 2001?” she fired overjoyed. Ah, such youth is uncanny. I just listened, no need to ramble off my pretentious opinions. “2001 was great, I love Kubrick. I saw Dr. Strangelove in high school and was amazed.” What a bore I am. “Oh my God, I haven’t seen Strangelove, but I loved a Clockwork Orange… and Oh My, The Shining!!” she said. “Yes,” I agreed while embracing her. How could I ever have a connection if I just speak so generically? I prefer solitude mostly, until I realize how dull and vapid I am and that I’m just a failed mass-man. I long to be emperor, but I’m hardly a courier. I don’t know what I am, but Ginger seems to like me. Seems. I’m just a phase people outgrow, but perhaps I’m too disparaging. We naturally change and move on, and she will too, and I already have. I wish she would break-up with me, as I have neither the courage nor will to do so myself.
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55Day 10
56
57I think Ginger will break-up with me. This is terrible, I always sabotage myself. I thought this was really working out, all of my complaints were in jest. Her smile, the way she called me cute. “Guess what?” “What?” “You’re cute,” ah how that made my life worthwhile. I called her beautiful, perhaps a bit strong. I held her, close to me. If only I had my own place, and she doesn’t want her roommates to see her relationship. I understood that sentiment, but perhaps she’s embarrassed by me. She denied this, I am paranoid. Why would I even enter that thought into her conscious? We have not had sex yet. I would love my warm cock to fill cum into her vagina; the thought of her fit (she’s thin hardly fit) body receiving my warm cum fills me with joy. I plan to not masturbate for over a week to fuck the shit out of her and make her soft pussy squirm with delight. Although, these dreams may be in vain as she has been distant, and my quaint charm has worn thin-- I am nothing but a tepid sack of potatoes. Perhaps she thinks I’m fat, a blob, a whale, I used to be so thin, and now I’m grotesque, my mother won’t even look at me. I don’t think I’m actually fat, but it’s always on my mind, I’m one or two meals away from being a blob.
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59Day 11
60
61Two days in a row. A rarity. Well, she is definitely going to break up with me now. I was home for the weekend, off set, I had a bagel and coffee and decided to drive. She did not reply to me all morning. This is a game to her; I should have grabbed her by the arms and fucked her right in front of all of her pathetic intern friends. Slapped her ass, smacked it, kissed it, delicious. Well, it’s all over now. My tepidness is the end of me. She hardly laughs at my jokes, I have nothing to say, and I always jumble my words. She ignores me on set, but set is the wilderness, she is my competitor. If we want to make it then there can be no allies. I received a call from the castle, after many moments down in my pit, the light makes my perception skewed, but when I’m down below then everything seems just. Everything I say seems correct down below. But up here, I read my words and think I’m crazy, but I feel passionate, strong, virulent in my notion that this is the end. She will leave me, and we aren’t even dating. I know she’s cheating on me, right under my giant Jewish nose. She will leave me. This is it, but not on my watch, I have a last-ditch effort.
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63Day 12
64
65Well, I tried to break up with her today. She would not tolerate that. “I think this is it,” I texted her lacking the courage to tell her directly. She was baffled, shocked, stunned. “I thought it was going so well,” you would have thought, you filthy bitch. “Your game is up missy; I know this is it. You have to understand I am a phase, and you keep blowing me off, embarrassed by your roommates. I’ve had enough. I want to get to know you, find someone to connect with and to you I’m just a toy, a natural dildo, but no the game is not in your hand, I shall prevail,” of course this was articulated more coherently, eloquently, and obsequiously, but assume the meaning still holds. “What are you talking about? Can you stop?” I retracted it, all of it, and allowed her to take control, a wretched woman, what a weak man that I am. I cannot even control one who is five years younger. I probably only live to write things on here, I clearly have literary aspirations as this seemingly inarticulate ‘naturally’ flowing diary is all too cozy and eloquent. Oh well, I’m back with the bitch.
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67Day 13
68
69Every day I walk into the same coffee shop, and every day I order the same drink. I wonder what occurred for me to become familiar from being unknown. A subtle remembrance, then a remembrance of my drink, then an obligation to be amiable. Such is life, and it appears I will have to find a new coffee shop.
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71Day 14
72
73I remember when I was younger and would watch Dr. House on TV, so young and so prone to any speciously profound psychology at-hand. How I long for those moments, sitting in a room, watching Dr. House, and drinking coca cola. Of course, I could do that tomorrow, but I’m biologically prone to say something is not right. That’d be true tomorrow and that was true back then. What I really desire is time. My sentimentally also begets other moments such as staying up until 2 am, eating goldfish and drinking ginger ale while watching SpongeBob and other kids shows. Unfortunately, food became a hobby and now it no longer can be. Sometimes I’d rather read Diary of a Wimpy Kid and watch Arthur, then do anything else in the world, including fondling Ginger’s robust body. It is as if I was begot by solely nostalgia and my mawkish sentimentality is my essence. Disgusting, but I don’t really think that either.
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75Day 15
76
77Well, I fucked missy today. A great man has his urges, and they must be satisfied. I feel like a master, a king, a giant monarch of the past. In 300 years from now, having sex will be a rebellious endeavor (only on behalf of the man), seducing a woman, taking her out, abandoning all obligation in the name of lust. An amorous incursion on my otherwise mundane life. Several years ago, I couldn’t imagine talking to a girl, let alone seducing one…. But, I’m still pathetic, just a frivolous person yearning to be satisfied, “Ooh that feels good.” I should just chop off my penis.
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79Day 16
80
81I tried a new coffee shop out of fear of familiarity, it was terrible and sour, and I spent the entire day on the toilet. Serves me right, this world has no place for solitude, anonymity. You’re either known or hated, usually both, but those who are known have some democratic dignity, and reverence among women. Shy or decadent is just as transgressive as murder or rape, sometimes even more so.
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83The more occurring when murder is justified. When somebody deserves to die, then how could it be murder? That’s not murder! Murder is just a legal designation of an act, he attacked, the result was death, and the verdict was murder as opposed to self-defense, war, or indifference. Rape hasn’t been justified in the western world for a while, even the most barbarous seem to agree that it is wrong, which doesn’t help the weak hapless men convicted of it or the brute aberrants failing to rebel. I was raped once, I was young. I seem to be doing just fine. 
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85Day 17
86
87The state and the correlating societal norms derived from the state or an abstract notion of those in power has replaced God. The average person is more loyal to the state than their own family. “Well he’s a murderer, well he’s a rapist.” Our life often is reduced to just a few moments, what difference does it make if they occurred on the same day.
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89Day 18
90
91Back on set, Ginger ignored me all morning. I stood there like an unharvested sack of potatoes, gesticulating for her attention every now and then. It was all in vain, as the young interns crowded and flocked around her. Of course, she was not one of the more popular ones herself, so she and a crew of the interns flocked around this other intern woman: Shelia. Shelia was loud, and homely. I do not see what the appeal is, but so be. We only ever had one interaction and it did not go well at all. 
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93Day 19
94
95I feel ecstatic every time I read and know that men such as Louis-Ferdinand, Jack Kerouac, Salinger, Fyodor, Friedrich, Franz, Fernando, and Goethe once existed. Especially when they juxtapose Harold Bloom. My thoughts have become so ordinary that I’ve experienced this moment and realization many times before. I am numb and transcribing memories of the past; silent words of my previous state. The women I loved, the men I loathed, and the moments fiddled away where even those who were with me couldn’t understand what I felt. I love all and I despise just as many. I sit back and realize the vanity of my goals and the only reason they’re never accomplished is the glorification of such. If only I could see how simple it all is.
96
97The warm heat glistening against my skin. It’s so warm and comfortable, I’m disgusted that I sleep so late. I sit in bed and ponder the past and future, always neglecting my present state, pursuing what I once had, losing what still exists of it. I’m a paradox of the highest order and I’ll be happy once I cease to exist.
98Day 20
99
100Continuous disappointment encumbers me. I remember talking to a therapist many years ago, I remember everything except the conversation. The grey sky, the slumped house, the long road leading to it, the one-time an elderly man asked me for a ride to the top of the hill. Poor being; how the elderly attempt to converse: A few aphorisms, a pithy, some platitudes, and most of it dismissed or reduced to aesthetic pleasure-- a poor old man, a wise old man, a greedy old man, etc. and a sybaritic sensation gesticulated in some manner. I wish it was several years prior… and I was having a cookie (black and white), a coffee, and watching Seinfeld. I wish I could enjoy that again instead of professing to be deep and disavowing all snacks. Instead, I’ll read Zarathustra and pretend to understand it, convince myself I enjoy it, and then go to bed and wake up with an unwarranted grin on my face. How I loathe myself. 
101
102Ginger is forgotten, once I’m married it’ll be as if she never existed. Once she’s dead, she never actually did. I will not know when she died, but at one point in life I was the closest person to her. Even if it was just a few days, just a few thumps, and just a few heys we had a moment of understanding. Shouldn’t I be entitled to something more. No! God owes me nothing. I remember so much, skipping school, eating dosie-does, watching shitty TV show. I wish I was a kid again, so I could experience childhood, instead I sit on my coach and type vapid words hoping not to sound depressed, but instead profess some truth. Truth, as if I could understand it. I’m just a person who exists, talks, and wishes he was different.  
103
104
105Day 21
106
107Every great man of the past is remembered by blinking toads that stand antithetical to all their teachings. A few drinks at a dinner party, hazy articulation, “Well Kafka was just crazy,” or some glib pithy about moralism and justice. The system is omnipotent and extended its roots to the past, all academia’s purpose is to boost the agenda of some rich oligarch. Humanities just preach the system in various facets. Everybody is sleeping including myself. What can one do?
108
109No, I’ve been living like this for far too long. Am I pursuing fame. Am I pursuing recognition? What is it to me what they think? Sure, they’re stupid. Take it this way, Dante is remembered, but hardly actually read let alone understood or enjoyed. I’d rather one person read me and enjoy me than millions pretend to. What difference is it if that one is me or someone else. Assuming, it has to be one.
110
111Day 22
112
113It’s so easy to be disparaging and create prisons in this world. Optimism may be naïve, but as is pessimism. I am just a lodger at the inn and that is fine. 
114
115Day 23
116
117War and Peace happened irrespective of Tolstoy. The Count once living, now just a figment of my imagination and mere speculation based on certain words he wrote down and were saved disregarding all that were not or those we choose to ignore.
118
119Day 24
120
121I was diagnosed with cancer today. Not much to worry about in terms of death, which I am anticipating, as that is a metaphysical problem unable to be grasped while living, but the thought of the negation of life in itself scares me in the waning moments of the night when I reduce myself to sensations of fading memories. No, death will always occur, and I will either not feel it or death will not occur. While death does make me fearful in some capacity and Plato’s rationality does not provide comfort, immense pain terrifies me the most. I believe this to be the last entry in this brief journal. I wish I could have said more, talked about all the days in between, what happened when I wasn’t writing, but I couldn’t do so. I couldn’t do enough, and I suppose that is okay. It does not matter if anyone reads this, I will take solace if one day someone does so, but myself reading it is sufficient, but perhaps subconsciously my vanity clings to hope that one will and maybe I provided comfort, certainly not insight. 
122
123I am reminded of a dream I had at an incalculable time in my life. I was in a convenient store, I got food, and the rest is a blur. And I loved it, I loved all of it. 
124
125Day 25: The End
126
127Isn’t it interesting how all our dreams and desires, once so tangible, wither away with our corpses until we’re reduced to nothing but decaying mass and eternal cartilage and bone? It must all seem so comical to an objective viewer. Dreaming of being remembered, instead of lifelessly clinging to a bed at twenty-two, incapable of doing anything much less replicate Leo Tolstoy. I wanted to write a great novel, but the burden of life belay on me too heavily. I wanted to accomplish so much, yet none of it interests me. I’m a whiny bore who regrets undertaking this journey, meaning this diary, or my not-so-inconspicuous literary aspirations. I figured out nothing about myself and only stroked my own vanity for several pages, while living through these ‘adventures’ and juvenile aphorisms. Waking up each morning with an excuse to write, for that invisible audience in my head, preaching the ‘truth’, feigning modesty, exonerating myself from all wrongdoing: how pathetic.