Dear Diary,

This is the worst day of my life. I know that's how I've began each diary entry for the last 6 weeks but it's true. Each day is worse than the last. I greet each morning with bitter disbelief that this is actually my life. I want to die. In my sleep, in a painful accident, I really don't care. The sweet merciful hand of death is all I think about. I've concluded that my parents hated me from birth. That's why they named me this heinous name. The cursed name that prompted school kids to ridicule me, to tease me relentlessly. It was this unyielding assault on my self esteem that made me lock myself away behind doors and windows with the shades drawn. I haven't seen the sun in 8 years. Whenever I go out, the people always shout. They're monsters. They scream my name in the most mocking tone I've ever heard. The locals have even taken it upon themselves to claim that my name is their name too. But that is not so. The name is my cross to bear and it's mine alone. I don't believe in God. But if he does exist, if I get to meet him when he finally finds it in his cold, unloving heart to kill me, I'll say this to his face: "F*ck. You." I'm just a man. I'm a man with flesh, bones, and organs pumping blood through my body to keep me alive against my will. I'm a man like you. But I was born with a different name. That horrid, horrid name. Four words, eight syllables, and a lifetime of never ending cruelty. I have endured. I have endured as best as any man could. I deserve something. I deserve death. At the very least I deserve a swift and painless death. And now I'm crying again. It's time to lie down. Til next time, Diary.

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt