So, now the brilliant Doctor would like me to start journalizing my angst. I say to hell with him and all his high-flyin’ ideas! What the hell does he take me for, some kinda Sylvia Plath type wannabe? Yes, that’s me…complete with my Bell Jar dreams and darkly symbolic poetry. I sometimes sit across from the good Doctor and think that I could do a lovely little re-arranging job on that precious little face of his! All the while singin’ a nice little ditty about the rain falling hard on a humdrum town! Whatever!
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I’m on the friggin’ subway, trying desperately to keep my printing neat enough to maybe read this entry at a future date. Not that it will ever mean anything of value to me. Who am I today, who writes words in this journal for some future bastardized version of myself to read at a later date? I will never understand the relevance of such an endeavor! But let’s not make the Doctor cross. I already feel like he is sizing up my skull for future lobotomy practice. Need I even remind myself that he already sees me more frequently than any of his other patients?
Should I even tell the ignoramus sitting beside me that it’s not polite to read other peoples’ private writings? The nerve of some people! I shouldn’t kid myself, though. I just know that my fat-pig of a mother will be sharing this journal with her old-bat-canasta-biddies at the first opportunity. I can hear her now. “Listen to what my Toby wrote!” If I had a dollar for every time I wanted to teach her how to behave like a normal human being…well, let’s just say I’d be a millionaire. She’s the one who’s a few drops short of the proverbial river, and yet I’m the poor bastard bein’ analyzed. I ask you where the logic is in that fact, my brothers?
Anyway, as I was saying, I’m writing this crap down while trying to balance this friggin’ journal on my lap as the sonofabitchin’ subway shakes its way downtown. Like I have nothing better to do with my time. If I’m gonna get serious about this, it’s time to start bitching about those numerous things which piss me off. Number One on the list, with a bullet I might add, has got to be this phony sittin’ next to me…reading MY words! I should offer the journal to him while I consider my next sentence. The bastard!
Incidentally, (and apropos of nothing, I might add.) I’m seeing this girl today. I don’t know why. I once saw her from afar, from across a crowded room as a matter of fact, and I can just tell that she’s the type of girl who is really into reading Beat poetry and smoking duMaurier cigarettes. Her conspicuously all-black clothing is both slightly alluring and a total turn-off at the same time. She probably has a copy of The Dharma Bums under her Goddamned pillow, for Chrissake! I think these crowded-room meetings always end in disaster though, especially when they involve girls with Kerouac under their pillows!
Anyway, she called me up and asked me to meet her downtown at the Black Night Coffee Shop (name of establishment has been changed to protect the guilty!). How the hell apropos is that! I should have taken the destination as an omen! She would like to meet for some friggin’ lattes, of all things! So here I am, barreling downtown towards yet another date-with-a-girl debacle…writing about it along the way, no less!
How does one go about writing a journal entry? I don’t know if I should be addressing myself, or all of you bastards as a whole. I wonder if anybody else has to make a habit out of compiling a God forsaken bitch-list, such as this one. Toby Gillard, literary nobody, tells all in his yet-to-be-published rant-fest imitation of his life!
Anyway, I have to get off of this caboose. I can’t take anymore of this friggin’ stoppin’ and startin’. I hate subways and all the Goddamned commuter imbeciles who frequent them. What I wouldn’t give to be anywhere else in the world right now but here. I should be on my Goddamned back, in bed, reading William Carlos Williams and smoking marijuana in mass quantities. God knows I haven’t heard a good wheelbarrow ode lately.
This is where my conscience, disguised as the good Doctor, would kick in and rant about the bad reaction I would experience by mixing street drugs with my Lithium and Prozac Cocktail. I say to hell with him and all of his precautionary tales of the up-in-coming disasters in my life. Like I tell him every visit, “I am the son and the heir of nothing in particular…” What exactly would my untimely demise do to this God-forsaken world, anyway? I mean, who would notice?
Why do I constantly find myself traveling down this route of questioning? My problem, in a nutshell, is that I tend to believe, somewhere deep inside and very inexplicably, that EVERY day is a perfect day for Bananafish! That’s why I always come to this bullshit “untimely demise” line of thinking. I have a tendency to See-More-Glass, if you know what I mean, my brothers!
It’s time for a poem…whether you like it or not! How about a nice, light-hearted ode to that wonderful pastime enjoyed by such wonders of the world as John Kennedy Toole, or maybe even Anne Sexton! Oh the joy of a good suicide ditty!
Rhymes With Sane
Inside the pain.
Stretched across the pane
Of glass, my ass.
Soaked in rain.
I try to cry,
To come alive.
And stain the vein.
With the glass, I main the vein.
I sip the drip.
The grass drinks the rain,
As it pours from my vein.
I rip the strip,
And spout the rain
From the pumping vein.
My breath…it halts,
And still I drain
The pumping vein.
Now that’s what I like about poetry…it brings out the joy in one’s heart, without getting too mushy or lovey-dovey about it! The world needs a good poem every now and again. Wouldn’t you agree, my great disciples?
I think I’m going to close this journal now, before my thoughts become completely morose, dark and impenetrable. I should concentrate on this Icabod Crane type bastard who’s been reading over my shoulder. If he wants a good read, I’ll give him a good read!
Next stop is Union Station and my date with destiny. This is going to be Ms. Havisham’s little girl, my brothers, this Goddess of the Black Night Coffee Shop! (Name of establishment has been changed to protect the guilty!) She must be up to something, wanting to spend time with the likes of me. Mother says she just knows a good thing when she sees it. But Marge is very biased. She tends to think that I am some infinite degree of wonderful! Yes, I’m a bastion of perfection. A bastion, I tell you! My sister, Nat, on the other hand, suggests that this girl must be as crazy as I am to even consider going on a date with me. Now that is the kind of emotional support that I can really hold onto and cherish.
Now I KNOW that I should end this rant. When my affably neurotic slob of a mother and my wing-nut, loose cannon sister begin to show their faces in all of my private thoughts, it is time to close the book, my brothers! It is time for me to meet with my duMaurier smoking destiny.
This, my first journalized rant, must draw to a close. Wish me luck. If not luck, at least wish me the ability to walk away from the Goddamned tempting platform once I disembark from this subterranean bus! I always find myself intoxicated by the enticing pull of whooshing air as the subway throws itself into the station, if you know what I mean.
Until we meet again, I bid all of you nosy journal readin’ bastards adieu.
At the end of every short story the reader should feel like a cloud has lifted from the face of the moon.