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Talking to the Mirror

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August 29, 1976

My name is Travis.  This is my journal.  These are my thoughts.

This writing experiment of mine will most likely not get any hits.  I expect it.  I also expect to be buried in a small grave with no flowers or visitors.  I am God’s lonely man.

If you did so happen to click on this story, then thanks.

If you are expecting a grand adventure, then turn back now.  This is not that kind of story.

If you are expecting a random mess of edgy wording for shock value created by a first-world teenager with nothing better to do, then leave.  This is not that kind of story.

If you are expecting a romance to make you squeal like a girl’s first time getting porked, then shoo.  This is not that kind of story.

And if you are expecting a homosexually-fueled paradise of unrealistic anal sex between me, a character in my movie, and/or another random fictional character (though I am very real) with cliche’s and cum like a damn cinnamon roll’s icing galore, then go to your local porno theater.  This is not that kind of story.

You may have come from that recent movie, Joker, I believe it was called, that I had a hand in.  Well, I think I did.  I don’t know much nor am I that interested in comics, but I do know the Joker character reminded me of myself.  It was fairly good.  I hate that loser, damn, what was his name? Oh—yeah—Robert DeNiro (or De Niro)—and was glad he got shot in the face at the end.  I would have done the same.  Drive, Nightcrawler, American Psycho…they took from me too.  How do I know this? Like I know government secrets…but I won’t tell you.

I mean, I don’t wanna sound arrogant or nothin.  I know my place in history.  If I had gotten away with killing Palantine (name reminds me of some kind of medicine a doctor would force on you) I would be even more significant.  Unfortunately I also encouraged something bad that happened with President Reagan.  I think Jodie Foster looks a lot like Iris. What do you think?

Fuck, the phone is ringing.  Wait—can I curse?  I know there are probably lots of young girls reading this, ya know, being fan-fiction (or is it spelled Fanfiction?) Women like this shit.  Sorry, I swore again.  I really try to be a gentleman and treat every lady with respect, that is if they deserve it.  I don’t want to talk to anyone, especially not talking on the phone.  It’a a real chore, I tell ya what.  I hope it’s not Betsy. Sometimes I still imagine that she’s calling me repeatedly, begging me for to return to her.  But I won’t.  Maybe one day I will return to Mother and Father.  But not her.  They have touched her.

I was just looking at the torn, captured Viet Cong flag in my apartment when I almost dozed.  I have to stay awake.  I have to this time.  I need to work.  A man becomes his work, and I have become a bonafide cab driver.  That’s what Wizard tells me, anyway.  I guess I’ll swig down some peach brandy and get my hands back on the wheel…the only place I can feel a piece of belonging.  Oh right, and I am a hero now.  A hero…hero, hero, hero.  I like that word. 

I’m craving pizza.  New York-style, of course; one of the only things this God-forsaken city can make, and make well.  Maybe they’ll have it at the diner me and the other taxi guys eat at sometimes.  I hope Charlie T doesn’t try to pat my shoulder again.

Thanks again for clicking on this story.

T. Bickle