9/11/2001
Dear Diary,
Today four Palestinian's hijacked US airplanes. Two went straight into The Twin Towers, one into the Pentagon, and one got shot down or something. New York City is chaotic. Everything is shut down. World Trade Center is gone. I saw a million people walking across the Williamsburg Bridge. Subways are closed, Penn Station. It's pretty hectic. I can't find Chris and it's starting to piss me off. He hasn't called since he went to Kenan and Marc's. I can't get in touch with anyone. My phone is fucked up. I feel so tired and so hungry. I have to find Chris and I have to call Freddy—not necessarily in that order.

2005
To be honest, I didn't know what to use for the Mental Illness issue. I chose this one because these 4 Palestinians seemed to be fucking crazy enough. And the fact that I was concerned with calling Freddy, my drug dealer, must also seem crazy in the eyes of a normie. The truth: it's really fucking hard doing Dear Diary sometimes because I have endless archives that are just saturated with mental illness. I guess it's all fake mental illness, like addiction and self obsession, but when you think about it, "mental illness" can be a very loose term. Technically I was sick and diseased with having an over inflated ego. Is Paranoia and Bi-Polarism really that different? I mean sure, on a larger scale, but they all share the same roots more or less. Just like pride had those Palestinians flying into the WTC, I guess my vanity, gluttony, and envy kept me tuckered away in my bedroom, sniffing my life away and assuming that no one, or everyone, really gave a shit. It's insanity, right? I mean, not to get all serious, but reading these entries sometimes really makes me feel like fucking puking. It seemed like I was forever locked in the jail that was my brain. Not that I'm really so much better now. At least I get a little bit of money and some fan mail for making my "craziness" public. And really, it's not that bad anymore. It's like herpes; I get outbreaks every few months. But instead of crusty red sores, I make bold statements, like "I THINK I LOVE YOU", or "NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME." Sometimes these bouts of ME need outside help, but most of the time it's nothing a cup of Snugglepuss tea won't fix. Maybe the towel heads should've thought of that. SNAP!

LESLEY ARFIN