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.