September 7, 2005

Dear Diary,
Why is it that every time a priest says something slightly out of character, it gets a huge laugh from the congregation? After thinking about this for a while, I decided to try giving the priest some jokes to tell. I told him to say, "But seriously, folks, I haven't ever molested an altar boy!" He asked me why that would be funny, since he never has actually molested an altar boy. I asked him if he has never touched an altar boy, who was that I saw him touching in the rectory? He said, "That wasn't an altar boy…that was you!" I said, "What?" Then M. Night Shyamalan came around the corner and yelled "Cut!" He got mad at me for screwing up my lines. Then the priest said, "It's okay, kid. You'll get it next time." Then he winked at me, and I realized it wasn't a priest. It was James Caan. How did I not recognize Sonny Corleone?
This was probably my worst birthday ever.

May 5, 2006

Dear Diary,
Today I graduate. Not from high school—that's next week—but from the prison camp my dad's been sending me to on alternating weekends. For the past 14 years I've been learning how to make license plates and break rocks. When I was 12 I saw a man getting raped through a hole in the wall of my cell, which I shared with a kid my age named Zane. Zane and I were cellmates from the ages of 8 to 16, when he was killed by the warden for switching his regular coffee with Folgers crystals. I guess he noticed the difference.
Zane taught me a lot, though. He taught me how to fight off a charging rhinoceros and even how to capture a unicorn. But he never taught me how to love. And now, as I prepare to graduate from prison camp, I realize—I'll never know.

January 14, 1979

Dear Diary,
You know, we always called each other good fellas. Like you said to, uh, somebody, "You're gonna like this guy. He's all right. He's a goodfella. He's one of us." You understand? We were good fellas. Wiseguys. But Jimmy and I could never be made because we had Irish blood. It didn't even matter that my mother was Sicilian. To become a member of a crew you've got to be one hundred percent Italian so they can trace all your relatives back to the old country. See, it's the highest honor they can give you. It means you belong to a family and crew. It means that nobody can fuck around with you. It also means you could fuck around with anybody just as long as they aren't also a member. It's like a license to steal. It's a license to do anything. As far as Jimmy was concerned with Tommy being made, it was like we were all being made. We would now have one of our own as a member.

October 31, 2006

Dear Diary,
Today I shat a pumpkin. No lie. A full-size pumpkin, with a face carved in it and everything. When it landed in the toilet, the candle inside lit, for no reason at all. There was a glowing jack-o-lantern floating in my toilet. Damndest thing about it—it was clean as a whistle. So I picked it up, dried it off, and set it out on the porch. Three minutes later I look out the window and my neighbor's wife is running away with my pumpkin, while my neighbor is shitting a 7-foot Christmas tree in its place. He makes sure all the branches are sticking out and pretty, then he runs off too. I open the door and yell, "It ain't even Christmas season, ya jerk!"

July 7, 2007

Dear Diary,
Tomorrow I travel to Hollywoodland and I will meet all my favoritest movie stars. They will sign my automograph and theres too and there will be cake and punch and everyone will want to be my friend. For shizzle.

August 30, 2025

Dear Diary
As I write this, I am stuck 18 years in the future. I hope I can soon return to 2007. I don't have time to write much, but I will ask this: Who decided the one to lead us into battle with the robots would be Shia LaBeouf? I bet it was Steven Spielberg, that prick.