Dear Diary,

It is 7:50am, Saturday.  That's seven fifty in the morning on a Saturday...well, morning, I guess.  Used to be, I'd have to put several alarms at once to hold on to the day.  Now here I am, up and at them—that's atom!—on the weekend, no less.

The other day I whistled into a donut shop with some change.  And, you know, Diary, I was standing there thinking on how all donuts pretty much taste the same and how European I am, because the only ones I likes are the French donuts with the various colored frostings, but they still have too many calories, and I'd have to try all the colors if I got them and they're so tasty, wolf 'em all down I would, and I felt gross because I hadn't time to wash my face but I was only seeing my shrink and he knows I've been known to get high and jerk off for a week no problem like a dog thinking it's doing the scratching, so I didn't really need to worry about impressing him; I thought it odd that I'm basically just paying him to read my writing, but I still haven't showed him anything because I'm worried he might steal it and I don't know how to tell him that—and why aren't we addressing playtime? Anyway, when the clerk, a nice Asian fellow—I knew he was probably the cousin of the husband of the woman who owned the place, but whatever, you know how immigrant groups do—asked me what size for my iced coffee, I opened up my hand and said merrily, What size does this get me?  Just then, an old white man standing at the counter next to me slid me a dollar bill, and said, Here, grab yourself a donut, too.  I was Fabregased; obviously, I told him where he can put his dollar, back in his classy Old Navy cargo shorts.  That kinda made my morning, and it felt good to see people do that, so I tried to do that to someone else later that day.  It was also refreshing not to think he was staring at me cause he thought I was going to steal his social and drive around in a 750 with it.

Anyway, Diary, I'm going to take it easy today.  Yesterday at the gym I kicked this guy in the shin to see if he can take a joke, but apparently he thinks it's okay not to be a good sport, so now I need a new shin bone, but, like you know, whatever.  I don't feel like I've lost so many years anymore.