The following was taken directly from my diary during a period of great emotional tribulation, with only minor corrections made to misspellings and problematic word choices. I offer it to you now as an educational resource; if your journal looks like this, it may be time to take control of your mental health.
January 1st 2021
Today was wonderful. The birds chirped, the sun shone and Papa allowed me to drive his Hummer for forty-five minutes in the afternoon. Such bliss is fit only for God and his angels.
January 2nd
Papa was mad today. He found a tipped-over milk carton in the Hummer and placed blame on me, his only son. Papa says I can no longer drive Her.
January 3rd
Despair.
January 4th
I have lost twelve pounds since my Hummer privileges were taken away. Milk. Don’t remember drinking any milk. Saw Papa today and violence clouded my mind.
January 5th
H-U-M-M-E-R. Papa is out with Her. He drives my vehicle, my birthright, violating it with his unworthy hand. Do I have the strength to free Her?
January 6th
I’ve killed Papa. His blood was thin and it splattered magnificently over the carpet of the TV room. I squealed like a piggy and rubbed his gore on my face in a swoon of joy, though soon afterwards I felt gross and sticky.
January 9th
Inside of Her now; we’re on the freeway. Johnny Law is close behind. Haven’t slept since the murder. Put a thermometer in my mouth: 107. Yikes. Wonder if my decision to slaughter Papa was partially due to mental health crisis. Think I liked the idea of Hummer more than the reality. Stick my gat out the window and empty a round into policeman’s face. Sigh. Doctor Menendez was right, I would benefit from Zoloft.
Very funny abe!