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Today - 12:20 p.m.

What was it Zelda Fitzgerald once said? “I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs."

She was right you know. She was totally right and they locked her away.
And I can’t help but sit here and stare out the window of my cell (they prefer that I call it a room but it’s a goddamn cell) and wonder if maybe it was all in my head this entire time or maybe like Zelda, it was all beautiful and real and I’ve been right this entire time.

I'm not exactly sure where to begin when describing all of it. Luckily for me, he was a piss-poor marksman. Afterwards, I spent several weeks in the hospital even though he only used a twenty-two and the slug hit me in the shoulder and didn’t do much damage. It didn’t even hit any bone. Total weak sauce. However, my shoulder is still very sore which means I can’t really sleep on that side anymore and I get awful cramps at night, not only in the shoulder but up and down my back as well. I guess it could have been a lot worse. Again, luckily for me he was an idiot who never played a lot of first person shooters like everybody else in our goddamn age group. If he had played Doom like the rest of us I’d probably be dead.

After the hospital, I went to Rikers for a time while they decided what to do with me. That was not fun. Now I’m here at the nut house, (they’d prefer I call it the sanitarium probably because it’s worth more in Scrabble that way). Anyway, since it looks like I’m going to have lots of time here, I should try to use that time and improve my crappy poetry. But that sounds like work so, meh.

They keep telling me I should write as an exercise, both to rehabilitate my shoulder and to “express how I’m feeling”. Shrinks, what can I say? I’ve only started doing it today to relieve this mind-numbing boredom and to get Donovan to shut the hell up. He doesn’t barge in here and interrupt me when I’m writing but the rest of the time he’s constantly yapping away. You’d think he’d never had heard the expression “as silent as the grave before” or maybe he’s just constantly yammering on to be ironic. Or he’s just a dick. I don’t know. It’s probably all of it.

So where to start? I guess I could start all the way from the beginning, which will be somewhat difficult since I don't really remember when this whole thing actually started. I could lead off from the murder of my parents, but that may take too long. Regardless of where I begin; it’s going to be a hard thing to do - the writer’s block had been crippling me for months even before I was shot. Writer’s block is like drowning slowly in a tub of maple syrup while your best friend watches and does Sudoku. I suppose I really should just start from around the time when I received the trunk that Shannon had left me in her will. That's what kind of started this whole thing anyway.

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