Since I’m required by my therapist to write five thousand words in you, you only serve the purpose of filling a hole in her life. You’re like an adopted brother. I want no part of you and as long as you stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours. How do I feel today?
Annoyed. I feel annoyed that I have to write in you. You know, when I took the keys to Daryl’s car without asking, the worst I expected was to be thrown through the windshield at at least seventy miles per hour, and the worst thing that happens then is I’m throwing a piece sign mid air, or pretending to look at my watch, and then someone puts it on YouTube and I’m an Internet superstar up until they decide I’m not cute enough to be a spokesperson against euphemism like that one chick in Florida who used to blink at random and everyone got a huge hard on about it. I never expected he would involve the police, even if I did accidentally drive it into the stockyard’s cess pool (they should put a fence around that.) I’d like to ask to be retried. I believe that I can prove I am a criminal who understood what he was doing, and therefore should not have to write a gay ass feelings journal. Anyway, here we go.
First of all, thank you for the anti-depressants. I know I’ve only been taking it a month, but I know it’s working, plus I can masturbate for hours (we have broadband!) That in turn is giving my right arm some fantastic muscle tone, so I try to keep that side to the high school girls. I try not to flex too much because I’ve seen human growth and development videos and any more and I might increase the blood flow to their birth canals and make them pee themselves as I understand women get ready for sex. This will surely cure my feelings of melancholy for living in the Sunset Meadows trailer park. In fact, it would be best if all poor people were forced to take anti-depressants. That way no matter what, nobody would be sad. Please send that suggestion to the government, but make sure it says I thought of it if there’s like a royalty or a spiff or something.
So also the Ritalin to keep my thoughts from wandering is working too. Plus it gives me more of a buzz then when I used to smell my model airplanes after I built them, and then Daryl saw me do it and confiscated my airplane glue and sometimes I still catch him with superglue in his mustache. Also the energy it gives me is amazing. Before I could only imagine ten totally rad things I could do. Now I can do four to eight of them and I remember to do the last six to two the next day! I changed the numbers on an entire blocks mailboxes and before Ritalin I never would have had the energy to do that. Also it makes me feel talkative all the time. I used to be fairly reserved with my opinions, but with my new mindset, not only do I have the energy to argue more, I have the focus to think of numerous reasons why I shouldn’t take out the garbage or go to the grocery store.
I can also sit down and concentrate on sexing on a single woman, instead of two or three or Caligula. Before at most I could have a Michael Bay like montage of Sarah Peterson letting me put my hand up her skirt, car explosions, Sarah Peterson letting me put my hand up her shirt, questions about the real writer of Shakespeare’s plays, Sarah Peterson asking if I want to go all the way, Paris Hilton’s Green CNN Porn Cam, Sarah Peterson explaining to me what all the way means, Space Marines fighting a giant Shoggoth, and Sarah Peterson getting frustrated, leaving, then coming back and asking for her underwear and I didn’t take them I don’t even know what I’d do with a girl’s panties so don’t even. Now I can just think about having consensual intercourse in the missionary position for the sole purpose of procreating the species and spitting in Gods face through mixing the gene pool and evolving. So a big big thumbs up for the Ritalin.
As for the Mood Stabilizer, I’m not really sure if it’s controlling my mood swings, but you know how before we were talking about masturbating? Well if the Anti-Depressant slowed the trigger, that one slowed the whole gunman. Seriously, I stole like six of Daryl’s porno movies and switched the labels with a bunch of my old Pokemon Videos. He took my room apart but never found anything but a wine cooler that wasn’t even his but he took and drank in front of me to teach me a lesson. So I watched like all those pornos and it wasn’t until there was this one girl who looked exactly like the one girl I used to know who I saw got hit by a school bus and I finally finished. Is that weird?
Which brings us to the Xanax, for what you call hyperactivity/hiding social anxiety behind a veneer of cynicism but I call being myself. I think you outsmarted it this time! Good for you! Every time I feel like I can’t take things any longer, I put one under my tongue. Should I be able to keep from vomiting from the taste (which will stay in my mouth longer than the medication will stay in my body) I’ll know I can get back into normal life, with the small side effects of jelly legs, a half paralyzed tongue, and in a state of half asleep confusion.
I’m much more confident around the girls I have heart attacks imagining talking to knowing that they don’t think I’m an awkward distance stalker, instead I’m simply a horny tongue tied mongoloid with an inner ear infection who needs a nap. It’s much better to try and fail in a spectacularly life scaring manner than to just try to date in my league. Or not. My two hour delayed orgasms would make her feel inadequate at best if I were to lose my virginity. At worst I couldn’t finish, and then there was no point in stealing the condoms, which is fine since mom pokes holes in them to keep getting pregnant. So things are about the same on the relationship front, thanks for asking.
So the Judge is worried about my lack of respect for authority, and we need to work on that. I like how you say we, because it makes me feel like we’re connected in this struggle for my behavior. I can’t really tell you what part of my feelings is responsible for this. Let me ask my mom. Oh, she’s asleep on the couch. At three fifteen. Hold on Journal, let me ask Daryl. Don’t go anywhere, you inanimate object you.
Well, Daryl was masturbating to pornography on the computer in the living room while the dog watched. Neither of them noticed me, but I noticed that the actors also were stumbling and tongue tied. And they seemed to do OK. So maybe the Xanax is working correctly. So… feelings.
OK here’s one. All I have to do is check the history of that computer after Daryl smokes weed and passes out. Is it moral to watch the same pornography someone else watched? Like a specific scene, not like the whole tape. Because even if it’s at different times, you finish at the same part. That’s just weird to me, but the blond who was letting in the cable repair man looked like my therapist, which is double weird since I’m writing this for her, but she wanted me to be honest and this girl looked like her maybe thirty pounds lighter and without the weird spot on her nose that I cant tell if it’s a scar or the edge of a really weird freckle.
She looked a lot like her, diary, and she was short on money to pay and she asked if he accepted plastic and he said he was more fond of the real thing. Who uses cash today, even for door to door service. When I flushed that Care Bear down the toilet Daryl had to hire Scooter Rooter and they had a little star track machine that swiped the card. I mean I get that she was insinuating he could come inside and have sex in three different ways with two preliminary acts and one attempt at a surprise, some forced moaning and then ejaculate on some part of her body to explain how… he does it to… because the script says so and then she rubs it all over which is not what happened when that homeless guy came onto the bus. No one was rubbing anything, mostly the people who got hit were screaming AIDS and then the cops came and everyone had to get off and I missed Free Comic Book Day.
So I guess the movie made me feel sexually excited in the pantsal region with a but. As I was trying to finish while imagining the movie that looked my therapist, I imagined the time I saw Daryl and Mom when there was a thunderstorm and I tried to sneak into bed with them (that was a long time ago lady… I mean diary. Journal. But I don’t do that anymore.) For one, in real life when people mate sexual the lady is half asleep with her head halfway off the bed. I think this is to allow for proper air flow.
The man is on top and repeatedly tells her he’s almost done and sweats a lot while his penis attacks her vagina. Then the woman gets really excited and puts her finger her partners butthole, and then her partner sees me in my pajamas holding my cabbage patch kid and starts screaming at her. Then she screams back “What I thought you liked that,” and he goes “I have never liked- done that. At all.” and then I point out that he just did and he sends me to my room and then cries in the shower for an hour with Mom standing outside yelling through the door “It doesn’t make you gay, I’m a woman!” and he screams don’t talk about it, and the next day breakfast is really really quiet.
What else do I feel? Is unfaired a word? Five thousand words is going to take me forever to write. That one Lego headed dude in Illinois tried to sell Barak Obama’s jet-pack or some shit and he only had to be on Dancing with the Stars. Hell OJ killed like two dudes or something and he got to do commercials for gloves. And Lady Gaga doesn’t have to write five thousand words to Madonna about copyright infringement. How many words am I at? 1879? Jesus H Christ. How many feelings do you think I have.
OK so about the cess pool incident. I’ll give you that I borrowed the car. I’ll even go so far as saying that I borrowed it without permission, though to be fair, I asked Mom. Yes she was drunk but that is still binding. And Daryl’s car is common law property making it part of this families property making it one sixth to one third mine due to the transitive property of property. I mean we have a dog but nobodies saying “You can’t take Dale Earnhardt Three for a walk, we bought it and paid for the license.” I take him out without asking all the time, except I tell everyone his name is something like wolverine or chopper so people don’t think I’m a faggot. And I don’t mean that as gay, if they thought I was gay I’d get way more chicks wanting to walk Megatron with me. But you tell a girl your dog is supposed to be the karmic return of a man who’s job it was to drive in circles and you’ll be feeling boob about when you’re old enough to pay for it at strip clubs, where I understand boobs are offered for feeling on demand and all you have to do is insert change in vagina. So clearly I had permission to use the vehicle.
As for this supposed drivers license I’m supposed to have, I’m allowed to drive in this state when I turn sixteen. I know what I’m doing. You don’t make people get licenses to cut hair or meat or fly airplanes. I’m willing to go in, do the drive in a circle thing, drive back. But you’re not putting me in the machine, man! I saw The Net and Terminator Three and Shrek.
Once I’m in there it’s only a matter of time before I’m part of a jury of my peers, and it’s not like Chicago where that means free bribe. People in Kansas have no where to be. We’ll just all sit there as Henry Fonda tries to convince us one at a time of the innocence of the man on trial until finally there’s just one hold out, asking has the room gone mad, have we all given over to liberalism. Then he’ll see that American Idol is starting in thirty minutes, we’ll all vote guilty and three months after the lethal injection they’ll find the killer’s semen again in a fresh body and we’ll all be like “Our bad, they were down to the last two.” So yes, I’ll prove to someone in authority that I can operate a motor vehicle without driving it into a cess pool, but you’ll get me to pose for a photograph over my dead body.
So I also feel like a retard for talking to my computer like it’s a real thing and calling it Journal or Diary. When I want to say diary I always type dairy. There is nothing particularly stable about confessing to milk. Journal is just really really girly. It’s not even gay. Gay men are more macho then Journals. Seriously, what the fuck do you want me to say?
“I went to the mall to live conspicuously.”
Are you, and by you I mean of course my dairy (where I keep my cows a milking Pre-Christmas) not the vaguely MILFy psychiatrist, supposed to be Waldeny?
How many people write journals. Three kinds of people.
1)People who watch monkeys for a living.
2)People in jail pretending they didn’t commit crimes, and three guys who really didn’t.
3)Girls who listen to emo music, watch Twilight, write shitty poetry, and cut themselves.
Jesus, twenty-five hundred words. OK, so on to how gay journaling is. First of all, nothing anybody thinks is worth writing down. I paint that with a broad brush to discourage slam poets. Obviously some people have something to say, but the number of journals sold to people with something to say is approximately equal to the numbers of guns sold to someone with something to shoot.
They are also pretentious. For example, the journal I was given by my attractive yet coy therapist is leather bound with that black stripe on the spine. It says “Journal” in gold letters, and is meant to convey to me a feeling of importance and seriousness, and to continue that level of importance, seriousness, and honestly inside these pages.
My name is Abraham Lincoln and girls fart too they just hide it better.
See, that didn’t change the spine at all. Still looks all serious and scholarly. If Daryl had a study instead of a studio, I could put it up with the rest of the leather bound books and nobody would be the wiser. But he doesn’t because he’s a musician which means he doesn’t know how to read.
Still, the point is, this whole thing is a way to try and push a Bobby into the body of a Robert using psychology. Even the ink pen that’s all new and shiny and holy shit it’s engraved.
“Keep Writing Robby”
Waita read those proofs, diary. I shouldn’t be mean, it’s a thoughtful gesture, but really. You didn’t read it once? It would have taken two seconds. It’s not one of those almost B R’s either. It’s all flowery. The B couldn’t look like an R if it tried to.
Now, as to the car and cess pool incident. I’d like to state on record if I am such that I am very sorry for that. When I borrowed the car I decided to drive it over to Serenity Lake, where I have it on good authority that the girls have no moral compass. I was driving the speed limit. You may argue I was driving the speed limit for the freeway, but I would argue that only pussies drive the speed limit, and as you well know, I’m not one. So I was going seventy, maximum when I saw a group of girls my age. They were of the attractive variety. Also two had breasts grown in. As I am a devout Christian I offered them a ride because I’m not going to hell just because Daryl doesn’t want footprints on the leather, and girls have little feet anyway. I pulled over and allowed them to enter my vehicle after both assuring them I was not a rapist, and that even if I was, there were three of them and that would take forever so don’t worry.
I was offered a cigarette that smelled oddly aromatic, and recognized it at once for what it was; a clove! Knowing that they were now banned and there were few left, I sucked it down in just a few minutes, to the annoyance of my passengers. It was at this point that I was informed that I’d been given drugs. It was a marijuana joint.
They lit another one, and I tried to ask them to stop but it came out as “Hey where’s there a Blitzburger around here,” a restaurant you well know has been closed for at least since my littlest sister was born because mom gave birth in there, and afterwords the health department closed it when my You Tube video where I found a rat and got it to eat some of the placenta got out. So clearly I was not in a state of mind to make good choices, but as it was Daryl’s car, it was my responsibility to drive.
It was during this time that I was asked to buy the wine coolers. Not being of legal age I refused of course. You have to be twenty one to buy alcohol for minors. But luckily one of the girls had a valid ID for me, and this made it legal. We pulled into a convenience store and I went inside. I left the keys in the car and the windows rolled down to keep the girls in good health, and the radio on to a station that plays Top Forty to keep their spirits up. I purchased two cases of ‘Perra Cerveza’ Malt Beverages, one in Fruity Mango Assault and the other was I think Grapleberry Smash and six bags of salt and vinegar chips for myself because the marijuana weed was making me hungry. I also got a big ass icee and stole a pack of rubbers I was too embarrassed to buy.
So, I gave the girls the wine coolers and the LEGAL ID back (note I put legal in caps, I’m perfectly allowed to buy them if I have it and if not why do you let nineteen year olds sell it?) And they opened them and started drinking and they were doing the girl thing of not being ready to be penetrated and wanting to be silly instead, so we drove around the city and they texted people and called people and drank their alcoholic sodas. It was good that I was driving because they were drinking things under the legal age while I was just under the influence of something that has no legal age. From a morality standpoint, I had the upper hand.
So then one of them starts asking me if I have a girlfriend and I say yes, and she says really and I say but she’s only on Warcraft. Then she asks if I’m a virgin and I’m not dumb so I say no and she says really what’s it like and I’m like “uhhhhhh” and I think back to mom and Daryl and shrug and say “I think pretty boring for you. If you want to do it I’ve got a magazine, but it’s about hot rods.”
So she doesn’t want the magazine but she does want to turn me into a man, with her vagina and what not, so we drop her friends off at the mall and tell them we’ll pick them up in one hour, and they each take a wine cooler with them because they’re real grown up for there age. So we go to the closest safe spot which happens to be the stockyards and get into the back seat.
So what I feel about back seats is that they were not made for losing virginity at all. They might not even be good for maintaining loss of virginity. She somehow wedges one foot behind something and the other one just kind of dangles, hitting me in the face periodically, and I am ready but in the dark it’s like… well hard. I know in general where I’m going but I keep getting kicked in the face and she keeps moving and kicking her feet because she’s drunk and finally I reach to turn on the light just as she kicks out the emergency break.
When the car started rolling I dove out to safety. The girls foot was still wedged and it took her a while to get it loose; about when the car hit the cess pool. I feel bad about this because I didn’t lose my virginity. Also because she had to walk half naked through cow feces. I don’t know what happened to her friends because we never got to pick them up.
As for going home and reporting the car stolen, technically it was. My description of it being taken by a white male, sixteen to twenty, with brown hair and green eyes was not a lie. I may not have given the whole truth but I gave the police more than enough to go on. Also, did you know that you can make as many phone calls as you want from the police department? I thought it was just one, but apparently as long as they’ll accept the charges you can call anyone. Lets see, a hundred and forty words to go.
I guess in summation I’m glad you’re my therapist now, whatever circumstances we met under. It’s not because you have large breasts or because you apparently think my name is Robby. It’s not even because you let me hug you whenever I pretend to cry. It’s because you fill me to the gills with more medication than the average crack addict takes a day. There’s nothing kids like more than eating pills constantly.
Well, I’m about finished here and I plan to start masturbating now, hoping to finish up some time around Thursday. Then I’ll run up and down the streets talking about my new project before drunkenly stumbling into a girl I like, confessing my undying love, being rejected and then crying myself to sleep.
Yours always Diary and woman being paid to read it,