What fun, gang: my mom recently unearthed a diary I kept from the ages of 10 to 13. This collection of my most profound musings from that period serves as a window into a crucial period of my development into the genius with whom you are all acquainted. Herewith are some entries from this mighty volume!
NOVEMBER 15, 1991
Today I realized the full extent to which the girls in my class are afraid of my raw sexuality and rugged good looks. I can see now that when they chant “Dirty Darren won’t stop starin’” as they pass me in the hall, they are displaying their own fear of my smoldering virility and the impure thoughts it inspires. Also, when they throw dirt and leaves on me, it means they want to watch the Ninja Turtles movie with me while eating candy cigarettes.
AUGUST 22, 1992
Good news: Jeffy Mahaffey, the cretin who has been bullying me lo these past two years, is moving to Saskatchewan! Apparently his egregious oaf of a father was transferred by his company. Triumph! I can only hope that John Macintosh, the father of the boy I’M bullying, stays put for some time!
SEPTEMBER 4, 1993
I watched a man drown today. I saw him bobbing in the Assiniboine as I strolled over the bridge. As he flailed his arms in desperation, I thought of those lines by the poet Stevie Smith: “I was much further out than you thought/And not waving but drowning.” But I knew just how far out he was, and I knew perfectly well he was drowning. I gazed at him as he eventually sank below the surface, the bubbles from his breathing subsiding, and thought about how sometimes playing God, choosing who lives and dies, might entail simply doing nothing, in exercising one’s will toward stasis rather than violence. Then I went and played Street Fighter and drank cherry milkshakes. Fun!!!
APRIL 8, 1994
Devastated. Today, I and others my age lost our generational spokesman, a man whose raw emotion and plaintive screams articulated our own rage, fear and confusion. To think that someone who I drew so much inspiration from met such a tragic end, in his garage to boot, is deeply unsettling. So many hours have I wiled away in my bedroom, listening to his primordial howls and feeling just a little less alone. He will be sorely missed. So, R.I.P Joe Bixley, the meth dealer who lived next door to me and screamed at his mom a lot and accidentally shot himself while cleaning his rifle! XOXOXOXO
APRIL 9, 1994
Just heard about Kurt Cobain. Shitty.
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