This diary is not dead, but that does not mean I'm not trying to kill it.
Last month, I took it to a rough bar and paid the bartender to put antifreeze in its alcohol. This diary downed six shots in a row. I was getting ready to watch it keel over in pain, but instead it jumped up on the table and ordered everybody a round. It then left with a flock of women, leaving me to pay for everybody's drinks.
A few days later, I went to the diary's apartment, part of an old warehouse crudely walled off into a studio apartment on one small corner. It was early, 9:30 a.m. My plan was to confront the diary while it was still groggy, and lay down the law. The door opened, and standing there was my diary, wearing workout clothes drenched in sweat from neck to abdomen. "How's it going, writer," he said, "I've been wondering when I'd see you again.
"Diary," I shouted, "I have come to kill you." My hand shook, clutching a knife in my pocket. I envisioned what I had planned to do since late last night: I would whip the knife out of my pocket faster than light, and plunge it deep into the diary's barrel chest. With repeated stabbings, I would ensure fatality. Instead, I stood there, my hands shaking, having uttered inflamatory words I could not live up to. I asked the knife to please leave my pocket, but it refused.
All the while, my diary just stood there in the doorway, smiling. "You say the funniest things, writer," it said, "that's why I like being your diary. But, I really am rather busy at the moment. This really isn't the best time to talk."
I stepped closer toward the door. Inside, I saw my girlfriend passed out naked on the bed, one leg propped up against the wall. The diary put up one hand, preventing me from going any further. "Really," it said, reaching into my pocket and grabbing my knife hand, "I am very busy right now." It made a fist, crushing my fingers against the knife handle until the weapon slipped from my grasp. "However, you really should come another time," it said, grabbing the knife and slipping it into its back pocket before disapeering behind the door.
I spent the next week drinking all day with sailors on shore-leave. When they went back to their boat, I rented a car, and drove around my diary's part of town until finally I spotted it walking down the middle of a stretch of wide open road. I stepped on the gas, and put the hood ornament right between me and the diary. I thought I had finally accomplished my mission, but at the last second, my diary jumped and rolled out of the path of the car, drew a knife, my knife, and plunged it directly into the side wall of the right front tire. My car buckled and turned sharply to the right, crashing into a utility pole.
Meanwhile, my diay dusted itself off and darted into an alley. Dazed, I lifted my head from the stearing wheel and took a gun from the glove compartment. I followed in hot pursuit, chasing the diary around one corner, and then another. I thought I had lost the trail, until I turned a corner and found my diary jumping for a fire escpape at the far end of an alley. I lifted my weapon and aimed, winging my diary across the left shoulder. It was enough to cause a fall from the fire escape. I ran, shortening my distance. Before my diary could gain a footing, I fired another shot square into its right hip. I approached the diary as it lay bleeding.
Slowly, I paced the last few steps. I kept my pistol at my side until I had stared into my diary's eyes a moment. Lifting the gun, it spoke, "why, why don't you want me anymore?"
"You've caused me nothing but trouble" I spit at him, "You're untrue, just half-digested thoughts of my troubled mind. you won't stay out of the google search engine, despite meta tags installed for the purpose of removing you, and on top of all that, your writing is just bad."
"You mean your writing," said my diary.
"Fuck you." I cocked the pictol. "From now on, I am not giving you any more snappy dialogue like that. From now on, you do as I say, you got that?"
Silence. Sweet silence.
"You've caused me a lot of grief. First, my uncle found you through google, and passed your url onto who knows how many other relatives. Then, my close friend found you, and misinterpreted some things I had hastily written about her. Then... then..."
"Hey, it's your bad writing. Maybe you should take more responsibility for it."
"Fuck you!" I fired away. Bang. Bang Bang. Feeling the gun jerk against my stiff arm. Bang! Furious, near tears. Bang. Empty shells hit the pavement. Bang. On the other side of my diary, all my shots ricocheted against the ground. Bang!
"You're one crazy fuck, you know."
"I know. Now get the fuck out of here. I don't want to see you around here again."
I don't know if I'll ever see my diary again. The fact that I wasn't able to make those shots tells me that maybe I really do want to see it, but I hope not.