December the 24th of 1861
There was cold gnaw in the Maine air today. I just finished visiting with my father on attempt to borrow money. My lithography business has gone under again, and Mr. Finkleton at the bank stole my drawing of Abraham Lincoln. I am stranded in life once again, without an oar to paddle forward. Last time I blackmailed Mr. Finkleton, with the help of two concubines who both bore what I devilishly referred to as “Finklebines”. It has always been so easy to play people without elementary educations. This time father won’t give me any assistance, he has stated in crude terms, “Well you better work on your blow jobs, cuz your brain jobs ain’t gettin ya anywhere.” Father and his love for manual labor never cease to amaze me. Father lost his reproductive organs from the spoils of manual labor and went to work the next day. He cleans dolphin cages. His only regret was having what he calls, “a bitch son.” He is right, but not in the way he is thinking. Father hoped for a clone of himself, this has caused so many struggles between us in our game of life. Eureka, ha ha, if only I could open the business alas, I would create a game where you could choose your own family and let the rest roll on the dice. It would be a nice step away from the cold reality, that I have sausage fingers and am unloved. Although my reality is I’m broken, but not burned. I have secretly invented the paper cutter. I will contact Henry Hassenfeld. What I need to do is use my paper cutter as a pecker cutter. If I can trick his brother Helal into putting his forbiddens on my cutting block, I can force their little Hasbro company to dish out the money for my game. I am a trickster. Those brothers have always been into kid shit. fagjerks. I must test the effectiveness of my device, which is why I have trapped several mice. That, and for reasons that this diary will not make a legacy of. Enough of my scheming. I want to confess a few things to you diary, my only secret keeper. I haven’t changed undies in years. They still look fine, I see no point. I am very mad at Abraham Lincoln for growing a beard and trotting around making that “look” famous. I also am quite sure that he lied about the Gettysberg Address. I found notes under his pillow case 21 months ago, he wrote it before the trainride. Asshole liar. And I am addicted rootbeer. There must be some wholesome way to manifest my faults for all time…Today I plan on murdering the last of the Dodo’s one once gave me a dirty look, I know what he was thinking, it wasn’t true, and they are all friends. Merry Christmas Darwin!