Excerpts from the Diary of a Fictional Character

As a show of how apologetic for leaving all of my imaginary readers, I offer this. Enjoy.

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May 28th

They're making me write this. Rather, Dr. Frederick Mann is making me write this. ‘They’ don’t come into the picture. I’m not paranoid, after all.

I don't really see a point to this exercise. It's not like I'm going to say anything of substance. I might even just write “la la la la la” over and over. That'd really piss them off, wouldn't it? He said fill it up, so I'll fill it up. La la la la la la la...


June 5th

Hi, Dr. Mann.

La la la la la la la la la la la la la la...


June 10th

Cindy was NOT – I repeat NOT – a delusion, hallucination, dream, or masturbatory fantasy. We were married. For all of two days before this happened, yes, but married. We have the parchment contract to prove it. And no, I'm not in possession of it at this time. You really think I keep delicate documents like that on me at all times? How many of you carry around your birth certificates in your wallets?

No, but I showed you the ring. You examined it. It’s an eight-hundred-year-old, six carat diamond set in pure, baroque-filigreed gold. Ever seen one like that before? Keep checking the museums, boys. It isn’t stolen. You’re looking at the genuine article.

I do not need “help.” Mann keeps saying that it's difficult to ask for help, to admit we're not in charge or that we need others, but that we all do. He's completely missing the point. I would only need help if something were wrong.


June 17th

No one listens.
No one listens.
No one listens.
No one listens.
No one listens.
No one listens.
(All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.)...


June 22nd

Fine. You want an entry? Take away my oreo privileges? You bastards.

Want to know what I hate? Apple sauce. It's like eating pre-chewed food. I utterly loathe it (and Dr. Mann makes sure they put it on every tray – not just mine, no, this doesn't spring from some paranoiac's persecution fantasy, Dr. Mann is just obsessed with apples). I'm not an infant, a geriatric, a feeb, or a dental patient. You know what I hate more than apple sauce? When Napoleon paints the walls with it.

He's not the real Napoleon, of course, which is what really gets to me. There's a lot of people in here who think they're things they aren't. Not in a guy-pretends-to-be-smart-and-outgoing-to-get-the-girl sort of way, either. Bugs the hell out of me. If you're in here, everything you say is suspect. Which means that none of you people will ever listen to me. Ever. The inmates would be more reasonable than the people running the asylum.

ONE THING changes and all of a sudden I can't ever have a normal life. I mean, I tried. I’ve lived in this place just fine for what, a year or so now? I’ve picked up the language, the customs, the traditions. They’re stupid and they make no sense, but I live with them. And then one conversation a couple months ago and suddenly everything turns upside-down. Well, one conversation and some open sores/jitters from a meth addiction, but I’m better now (case in point: no more conversations with the ghost of Hamlet’s father). I almost wish things would go back to the way they were, even though living out a two-dimensional narrative fantasy would be such a massive step down from this.

Oh, and one other thing. You know how Pinnochio doesn't end? With Pinnochio getting chopped up for firewood because everyone is terrified of a talking puppet.

La la la...


June 30th

Napoleon spent an hour arguing with one of the supervising shrinks today. The shrink made the mistake of disputing that he, le empereur de la francaise, wrote “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” The ensuing argument resulted in three fractured ribs, two puncture wounds, and one shattered window. The emperor was sedated for the rest of the afternoon, which means that he has not been reciting the speeches of Winston Churchill.

Today was a good day.


July 3rd

“Write an entry about your flaws” says Dr. Mann. What, as though I don't think I have them? Sure, I know, I'm bad with finances. I admit that. And honestly, I'm not that outgoing. I get nervous around crowds and I am completely terrified of intimacy. I even buy that “social anxiety disorder” diagnosis I got from Dr. Mann.

I mean, let’s face it. It was only through the rather overzealous efforts of my father that I even met a girl, and it's only because of my family's wealth that we got engaged. She was a complete gold digger. The engagement lasted a grand total of three days, which is congruent with the time it took to hire a caterer and get fitted for the dress and tuxedos. Okay, and fine, I also have something of a foot fetish. It’s part of why I married Cindy even though she was only into me for the gold.

This whole entry is patently ridiculous. I do not have Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Nor do I have delusions. “Prince Charming” is my NAME, don't you get it? Like, goes-on-your-birth-certificate-not-your-personal-choice-it-just-so-happens-to-be-yours NAME. My God, where has reason gone?


July 11th

I've been here for more than a month and a half now, and every day it just gets worse. This whole thing is less coherent than Magic Mountain. Just the other day this kid named Seth Kaiser – chilling gray eyes, really dead, monotone way of speaking, probably a sociopath – was dragged out of the isolation ward kicking and screaming the whole way, raving things like “WE'RE ALL DEAD, DO YOU HEAR ME? WE'RE ALL DEAD!” That kid even creeped out Napoleon. He hasn't been back since. Thank God. This place gives me chills.


July 20th

I'm composing this and all subsequent important entries in lemon juice. I'm going to write “la la la” over the top. Why bother writing this at all? Isn't it really idiotic? Couldn't it give me away? Yes it is, and yes it could. But I'm sick of the smug, condescending attitudes of everyone who has the keys to the front gate. I'm going to leave this for them to find after everything is over. They won't figure it out before then, I'm confident of that. You hear that, Dr. Mann? You're not as smart as you think you are. I'm getting out of here. I'm sick to death of the insanity. I'm getting out.


July 21st

Talked to Napoleon today. He said he would have le garde imperial stage a diversionary assault on the hospital's left flank and attempt to seize the cafeteria. Meanwhile, we could force a breakthrough in the rear and escape. I am so screwed.


July 24th

Scuffle in the commons. I managed to snatch a key ring that came off one of the nurses' belts. They got it back from me (along with a few bite marks), but not before I managed to palm the key to the first floor windows.


July 27th

Dr. Mann keeps trying to show me the “nature” of my “delusional thinking.” Of course, every time he descends to this topic, he harps on my hallucinations of Hamlet’s ghost. Well, what meth head hasn’t had a few experiences now and again? The point is I’m pretty sure he wasn’t really there.

Anyway, Mann had to bring it up again today. How I can’t possibly be Prince Charming, especially considering no royals in Europe will even talk to me (seeing as how I won’t submit to the indignity of a blood test), and how, as I made the mistake of revealing to him, I once discussed Medieval music theory with Hamlet’s deceased father.

I pointed out to the good doctor that there are six other people in this wing who are being treated because they're real people who think they're fictional characters. What, I asked him, is at all dysfunctional about thinking the reverse is true? Putting aside whether it is or is not the case. He told me I was missing the point. He said it didn't matter whether I think I'm real or made up, it only matters whether I think I am who I really am. I didn't even respond with the obvious. Instead, I asked him to explain the nature of identity. We ended by discussing the paradox of Theseus' ship.

Who knows? If he spends just a few more sessions with me, I might not even have to worry about getting out – his blood pressure will take care of everything.


July 29th

There may not be any garde imperial coming to our rescue, but Napoleon and a few of his fellow conspirators (among them Jesus, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, and an uncontrollable exhibitionist) have decided to stage a Parisian-style riot in the cafeteria tomorrow.

I had my final talk with the good doctor today. He wanted to know how it was that Cindy didn’t get “fully realized” (he he he, it’s a pun, get it? isn’t he so clever?) along with me. Honestly, I don’t know how to answer that. Am I supposed to reveal to the whole world that, after only two days with me, she had already started sneaking out late at night to “visit” some of the larger, less effusive serfs? Because yeah, that makes me feel really good about myself and all… So, as usual, nothing came of our little chat, but the doc was convinced he’d shown me the error of my ways once again.

Good-bye, Dr. Mann, you condescending, self-righteous, narrow-minded, Keith Olbermann look-alike. I hope I never see you again.


September 12th

I got this back today. Oh joy. After a month of solitary, we're going to “try this again.”

You know what they feed you in solitary? Yeah. Apple sauce.


September 22nd

“I need help.” Those are the three most difficult words in the English language to say in immediate succession. More difficult than “Mom, I'm gay,” and “I vote Republican” combined.

But please, for the love of God, somebody help me. I need help.

Obviously...

It goes without saying that I am lazy beyond measure. I'll invoke the (borderline untrue) defense of "life," however, and summarily dispense with imagined objections to my absence. I have discounted the idea of reviewing Boardwalk Empire however. The show is impressive, well-written, engaging, and it's obvious that a lot of money has been thrown into it. The only - vague - objection I have to it is that it seems like a very, very, very good show. That doesn't sound so bad, does it? I suppose I was expecting a great show. Maybe it simply didn't live up to the hype. It hasn't really done anything wrong so far. Again, that doesn't sound so bad. But of all the truly fantastic pieces of television out there, have any of the ones that endure the test of time, that become iconic, been flawless? For what it is, it's perfect. I'm just not sure that what it is is what I was looking for.

I would replace reviews of that with reviews of The Walking
Dead, but according to my good friend, pure.Wasted, that show is about to stop being as good as it has been, which somewhat frightens me.

And finally, I've been looking for information on sexual and sleep disorders. If anyone has firsthand knowledge, feel free to contact me.

Final thought for the day: Have you ever read Stirner? Probably not. He was a bit odd. He argued in favor of absolute, genuine freedom (one of the few who ever did, one of the very few who didn't obfuscate backtracking on their own ideals with intellectual misdirection like "civil liberties"); he argued effectively for a form of moral solipsism and total anarchy. One had to find one's own genuine cause, not adopt the cause of another, whether that other's cause be political, moral, philosophical, or religious. Without using a direct citation, you can say that his main contention was that you "find yourself."

I don't know if you can tell, but I have an issue with this. How exactly does one find oneself? I don't mean this in an esoteric sense. As usual, I mean it in the sense most people take it. This...soul-searching business which gets such airplay in this culture but which, as with most things, amounts to little more than an excuse to dabble in activities reserved for better beings.

I simply don't think there is such thing as a "self" to "find." This might be stating the obvious, but what are you without your environment? If you're a musician inclined to refinement but you are used to living in the grunge subculture, there's always going to be a clash between the role you have and the role you wish to have. Either you'll accept a compromise solution of being an oddity in either setting or you'll have a breakdown at some point from trying to reconcile two irreconcilable modes of living.

Besides, are we even what makes life worth living? Consider that no one dies for themselves except suicides. Men will die for their leader or their people or their ideal. But they are not those things. You are not democracy, you are not the leader, and in death you are yourself no longer part of your community (even if your memory is venerated). My point is that finding oneself seems to be taken as giving meaning to life in some way, or making one happier. But none of us could be the same selves we are now if we'd been born in China or born a hundred years ago.

I should be quick to note here that I am not against changing your life if your mode of living is undesirable, but changing is still not self-creation, since it invariably results from a change in environment. Plants, you see, don't will themselves to health in a desert. They either get replanted in a more temperate environ or they die. And yes, I just compared you to a fern. Get over it. You're not that special.

I think I'm probably with Hegel on this one. The only way to find any sort of authenticity or truth (existential or simply realistic) is through an engagement with history. Personal history, universal history, culture. There's nothing wrong with that, it's the way things are. The self-seeking stuff just begins to annoy me when it takes on mystical overtones.

Which is not to denigrate the introspective. Dear God no. There's too much thoughtlessness in the world as it is...