Saturday, September 10, 1994I’ve been feeling poorly for days, so like a good sicko I stayed in bed all day. Overdosed on vitamin C, read lots of zines and about ⅓ of Les Miserables, until the book began to bore me. Everyone says it’s a great novel, so I tried, but — Victor Hugo, my ass. The protagonist is too ceaselessly righteous to be believed.
And along the same intravenous vein, let’s look at a few brief snippets from the zine’s mailbag over the past few days:“… As I read more of your journal, I begin to worry that you might be considering suicide. That’s no answer, Doug …”
—Aaron Jacobs“… I hope the keeps you from putting your head in the oven one night…”
—Jeff Koyen, Crank
… Just remember, Doug, there’s no easy way out, and some of us really care …”
—Phillip“I don’t know if ‘enjoy’ is quite the right word for my feelings about a zine with as much pain in it as yours, but I’m fascinated by it …”
—Arthur D. Hlavaty, Derogatory ReferenceThis is becoming a recurring theme, so let’s put an end to it, pronto. This is my life, folks. It’s not The Brady Bunch. I have few friends and keep my family at a distance because I prefer the space. I live in a hovel because it’s cheap, and leaves more money for movies and ham sandwiches. This is the life I’ve chosen for myself, and I’m generally quite pleased with it.I reserve the right to get depressed now and then, but nothing here is a frantic plea for help, honest. If it comes off as some kind of suicidal wall-to-wall woe-is-me, please adjust your fine tuning and enjoy the angst, as I do. I’m about as happy as a hermit can be, but SWEET JESUS WHERE’S MY PROZAC?
This
is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago,
called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but
might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting
things, so parental guidance is advised.
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