God, I can’t wait until break is over.
It seems as though I’ve spent my life being different from my natural self in order to fit in. As if I must conform to the identities of others, interpret their identities and apply them to fit in. The longest phone conversation I’ve had with E in a very long time was one in which we discussed the navel and parties.
Because I wrote in giant blocks with no breaks it’s hard to say whether the first part of this has anything to do with the last sentence. I will say that based on the next day’s entry in which I will describe myself attending a party, I probably didn’t, naturally, have all that much to say on the subject of parties. The navel, though. That’s weird. I could see discussing that.
It wasn’t a very good idea for me to write down all my faults yesterday. I was angry at the world yesterday.
This goes on for a while about why I’m angry. I’m sad because no one asks me to go out and do anything. I explain that I probably wouldn’t go if they did ask and that they know that I wouldn’t go, but that I want to be asked so that I know that they are there and that they like me. This is pretty typical, I think, for the socially awkward and depressed (call your depressed friends, even if you know they’ll decline!). It was kind of a lot to ask of teenagers before the internet, though.
I then start talking about family members and our names and a story I’d like to write in which Diogenes meets my dad and makes him pancakes and then ends up living with him like Mr. Belvedere.
Anyway, my dad drives around in his plumbing van all day talking to himself in various accents and [scribble scribble] bad pun-jokes that he waits for a chance to use…I think my dad would have liked to be a comedian. I also think that he wants me to be one. I just don’t think I’m very funny. How did I end up writing about my dad?
FYI. If you’re a comedian and you’re looking for joke ideas, feel free to get in touch. My dad has some for you.