January 20, 2019

We made it to a place called the Ukraine tonight and we are bedding down in someone's house after I gutted the previous occupants with a spoon I'd sharpened while being held in the German facility. The children were very mad about this and the hairless ass weasel looked terrified and then began smiling at me. I could feel the special relationship we'd had while he'd lived inside my body for eighty years laying his eggs into my scrotum which is not normally an egg-bearing facility. The unnaturalness of this is why the children say I must be thrown into the fire. They fear my power and my unquenchable desire to conquer and kill (making me a good person).

I've also learned that these are not actually children after all. They are Dutch people and apparently a bunch of countries sent delegates to this symposium where they talked about using me and destroying me (making me uncomfortable). I am very comfortable torturing people and ending their sad little lives but I am not at all comfortable with the idea of other people torturing and killing me. It is just wrong in that direction. The Dutch are a small, childlike people with very small brains and no real value to the world whatsoever. Most of them would be better off being thrown into the sea frankly. I intend to go to the Dutch lands and do genocide there but first I will have to escape from these children.

I sleep in the smaller child's arms at night which is creepy but it is better than the alternative. The hairless ass weasel wants to go into my anus again and lay more eggs in my scrotal sack from within my body (unsettling). The way it looks at me is really disturbing and gives me nightmares.

What I want to do is find a way to contact the dead German soldiers, the ones that are glowing red and menace and have a flying horse guy, because they also are very interested in me and I think I fancy their plans. I heard the children talking about those plans a couple days ago but now I can't remember what they said.

Well, there is a Ukrainian lady I want to try to romance. I have winky eyes and have just escaped from Russia. She will want me if I talk sweetly and point down at my crotch a lot while smiling broadly. It is my usual approach with the ladies now that I'm not allowed to manhandle them and push them into the back of bars anymore because Hillary Clinton and Ben Gazi.

The lady is coming over. I have to go. I need to get my game face on. Wish me luck.

My friends.

I've been meaning to write. Actually, in the interest of being honest with myself, I've been meaning to have something to write. It's just that at some point you might realize most of the despair one feels in any given situation, especially as an adult, is largely a manifestation of your own choices, your own actions, your own fuck ups.

And I guess I find it is pretty difficult to produce a meaningful series of words to express this concept, the realization that life is not always simply dragging you along with it. You are not helpless anymore, pulled by your emotions in whatever direction it is they want you to take at any given moment. What's left, then? Responsibility, accountability, unromantic notions, those, a little bit too much reality.

Life has not been easy, really, and then it has been terribly easy all the same. All of the little tragedies aside, all of the anguish and emotional trauma arranged carefully into rows, columns, categories - varying degrees of failure. Not all mine. I am not as unkind to myself as I used to be. I can let someone else take the hit every now and then (probably).

I guess all I am trying to do is remind myself that when one is doling out the forgiveness, they should probably save a little for themselves. Why are we all so fucking hard on ourselves all the time.

If I make it out of my own head alive, I'll send a postcard.

Love, always.