September 9th, 1975

Dear Oliver,

Okay, I slept five hours last night and I feel like Jesus spinning in his grave. Or, out of his grave, I guess. Did Jesus have a grave? Or did he just spring back to life while still on the cross? I don’t know, never bothered reading up on the guy. Whatever, either way, I’m feeling queasy but in a good way. I’m alive, I’m breathing, a little unsteady, but what more can God ask of me? In fact, I bet I could fucking kill God. That’s how I’m feeling.

Elvira’s birthday party is Friday night. It’s Tuesday, and I’ve got less than a week to prepare. Great. She gave me her number yesterday. I guess this is the first time I’ve ever gotten a girl’s number before. My father always made it sound like more of an achievement. Anyway, it took me three hours, but I managed to pick up the phone. I then spent half an hour dialling her number and then hanging up before it even rang. Slow and steady wins the race, right? I called her eventually and we talked for about two minutes. Hours of worry over two fucking minutes. Why am I like this? Why can’t I do things when I plan to do them? It doesn’t need to take half the damn day.

So, here’s what I know: They’ve got six other people coming. She asked if I could drive her, her sister, and human Oliver. I said sure. Casper is driving the other car with the other people. I don’t think she knows me and Casper are cousins. Maybe I should have told her, you know, so she could warn Casper. But, I was too nervous to bring it up. Honestly, Elvira did most of the talking. I spent an hour planning out how I was going to say “hi”, for fuck’s sake. Low voice or high voice? Is this too loud? Too quiet? I didn’t plan to say anything else. I knew I had to say more than that, but I didn’t plan to. Well, I guess me and Casper’s mutually shitty gene pool is going to be a surprise! What a fantastic birthday gift, right? It didn’t even cost me anything! I’ve got to think of what I’m gonna say when I see him. Or if I’m even gonna try to talk to him at all. I wonder why human Oliver isn’t riding with him? Maybe the other people didn’t want to catch a ride with a stranger. I don’t know who else is going to be there.

Goddamnit. My neighbours are at it again. I forgot to tell you yesterday, but I think somebody moved into the apartment downstairs. They’re right below me and they’re fucking loud. Well, okay, maybe that isn’t fair. They aren’t loud, exactly, but there’s this unending stream of mumbling and bumping that’s driving me fucking crazy. I get the occasional bumping, they’re just moving in so they’re probably bringing in furniture or doing repairs, but what could they possibly be yammering on about every hour of every day? It’s been three days. They’re still talking about fuck-if-I-know. What do you have to talk about at 3:39am?

I’m trying to ignore them. It’s hard.

Where was I? We’re leaving around noon, checking into a nearby hotel, heading to the drive-in around 6, and heading back to spend the night at the hotel around midnight. I have an assignment due next Monday so I’d better

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Something's wrong. Somebody is calling my name and I think it’s coming from downstairs. Sorry, I’ll be right back.

Oh, who am I kidding, I’m not going down there. Why did I even bother getting my shoes on? I’m not even sure if that’s where the voices are coming from. It’s not like they’re talking to me. They’re just rambling. Whoever they are. They probably didn’t even say my name, my mind is just playing tricks on me. Damn it, I didn’t even finish my last sentence. There’s not enough room for me to squeeze in the last couple of words. I’ll just cross it out and start again. That’s what I get for writing in pen. Sorry about that. Anyway, I’ve got some work I’ve got to finish for my classes but I think I’ll be able to finish all that by Thursday, at the latest.

Are you fucking serious right now? They’re fucking pound against the floor. Or, their ceiling, I guess. I can feel thumping under my feet. I’m gonna move to my bed. Just, fucking really? You’ve been here less than a week and you’re pulling shit like this? Come on…

I’ve got to get Elvira a gift. What would she like? I don’t think I’m going to get her flowers, they’re so expensive, especially as the weather gets colder. Somebody already got her jewelry…

I feel sick. It would be just my luck to get sick on my birthday, wouldn’t it? Just my luck, promising to drive a girl to the drive-in and then immediately making myself too sick to go through with it. Maybe this is just what it’s like when you become an adult? You worry so much you make yourself sick? You’re tired but you can’t sleep? But, then again, I think I’ve always felt like this. It’s only getting worse now. Every day is a slog. I’m not sure if I even want to go. Why would I even want to leave my apartment? There’s nothing out there for me. I’d know. I’ve walked the streets day in, day out, and frankly, there’s less than nothing out there. Maybe it was because I looked like a bum. Back then, I was a bum, so what was I supposed to do? Peel my skin off? Peel somebody else's skin off and wear it like a jumpsuit? You can’t get through life pretending to be what you’re not. It doesn’t even matter what you are, all that matters is what people see you as.

The world has nothing to offer people who are nothing. It’s all about what the world can gain from you. What you have to offer. Only then will they let you be a somebody. Hey, I guess if it keeps the wheels turning and profits rising! It doesn’t matter who gets left behind. Weirdo’s aren’t people. I’m not real.

I still haven’t gotten new blinds. Money’s a little tight right now. I wish I could get more hours at the library. I’d get a second job but I don’t have the time. It was hard enough to get hired once. Does somebody live in the apartment across the street? That’s where the light is coming from but I can’t tell what it is. Probably a lamp. It must be a really high-end lamp because that light is bright. Brighter than the sun. It’s not always on so somebody has to be there to turn it off. And turn it on.

The thumping’s stopped. Thank fucking god. I need some peace and quiet. Or just quiet. Peace is the stuff of dreams, as my mother liked to say.

You know, I started writing this entry to try and make sense of what I’m doing next Friday. All I’ve done so far is complain. I could write a book of complaints. Memoir of a nervous wreck, fretting over spilt milk in a burning house. Well, I’ve got a week. I’ll probably write again tomorrow.

Do you want to come with me Friday? It’s stupid of me to ask, but you know how I like pretending that you’re a real person. Just Oliver, not Journal Oliver. I don’t usually take my journals out with me, especially when there are other people around. But I feel like I may need to make an exception. Only for Friday. I don’t want to be alone with so many people around. With you, at least I can pretend.

Thanks for listening, like you always do. Not like I give you much of a choice. Goodnight Oliver.