I am not one for jotting down mundane details of my life. Either I forget the best parts or I trip over the proper order of the events or the names and occupations of the waitresses and parking lot attendants who make up my circle of acquaintances. Sometimes I’ll fail to recollect the skin color of a person or his religion or his national sexual orientation. Often, when I do remember to ask someone how much money he holds in total assests and cash offset by how much debt, I’ll neglect to note it in my notebook.
Wait! HOLD ON, IDIOT! Aren’t you supposed to keep the contents of a diary “private”? So why would anyone care about you putting delicate data in your “private diary”?
What you fail to realize is I come of a long line of private diary readers. Actually I am the first of the line in my family but here is to a new family tradition. You would realize that if you’d correctly read my mind! Anyway I have five sisters andd two brothers. All my sisters kept diaries and one of my brothers did. Don’t expect me to introduce my family. Oh, Daddy and Mumsie are dead — they succumbed to a murder/suicide arrangement.
Four of my sisters lost their virginity not too long after they gained it. Two girls lost their trapdoors when they were under 16: both submitted to congress with men over 20 years old who had big dicks.
My brother had a diary as well. One day I walked past his bedroom and I saw him schlepping around his room with a stack of dirty magazines under his arm. A small composition book slipped from the stack of porn and fell on the floor. He flung the stack of magazines on his bed, hurridly picked up the notebook from the floor, and stuck it back in the middle of the pile.
Five and a half days later I slipped into his room. He was passed out on the floor, in his fingers was a lit cigarette: Camel, I believe. Maybe a Kool. He alternated between the two; you never knew what brand of cigarette he waas smoking, he was such an interesting man. The position of this fire stick relative to the carpet boded danger to me. Yes, it is advertised as fireproof but who really knows? So as I was covering my ass by extracting the cigarette from his hand, the other hand was flailing away inside his closet searching for the pile of raw, naked filth.
I found the stack and I now had the ciggie in my hand, aching to lay it on my goddamn brother’s gut. I dropped it in his open beer can instead, the ember creating a nice fizzle. With both hands I tried to claw out the notebook — but after throwing magazines around with no restraint, I couldn’t find it; it wasn’t there. Questions flooded my brain: did he actually see me when I walked past his bedroom door that time? Were there real notes, or poems, or differential equations written in the book? Or was it lost some place this feckless fool might wander?
This all happened three years ago and I know nothing more about the fate of my brother’s notebook. I wanted to read it so bad because I’m sure in it he bragged about the sex he was having with all the dogs in the neighborhood, especially the male ones.
Seems I got off the track a bit. I was writing about diaries and I went off on diaries of yore. So let’s stick to here and now.
Today was December 26, 2011. I did not leave the house today. I didn’t even step out the door. I slept, read, watched tv, talked to Carol. called my mother. In my previous diaries, I would list all the times I went to the potty but since then I’ve grown an inch or two INSIDE — O, my expanding soul!
I’m done for tonight.