I hate my life here! Ever since I arrived it's been terrible. It's an awful place and I hate it! My parents expressed a desire that I should have a "back to nature" experience. I suggested running naked through the sprinklers. They failed to see the humor in that and quickly signed my life away to Camp Koala, which is where I am now, and which I hate. Just moments ago, sixteen minutes of moment, to be exact, they deposited me at the feet of some overgrown boy scout named "Bic" who kept assuring me that this was going to be the summer I'd never forget. (Tell me why I'm frightened.) Yet, I am attempting to make the most of my misfortune. I am doing what all great imprisoned literates do. I am writing my memoirs.
P.S. Have I mentioned that I hate it here?
I am adrift on a sea of despair. I float but for a moment. I sink. I drown. I swallow large quantities of salt water and cough. Such is my life here in this prison they call Camp Koala.
Let me begin by saying that I hate it here.
I write these last words as I lie in my cold metal bunk. (I've taken the one on the bottom in case of an earthquake. I figure I'm that much closer to the floor. One must be prepared for these things.) I am surrounded by cold metal bunks. Twenty-two cold metal bunks draped with twenty-two itchy puke-green blankets. (I live for such comfort.) Most of the wood floor is covered by back-packs and duffle bags. These belong to my fellow inmates. My fellow sufferers in this search for meaning. (Viktor Frankl, where are you? Speak to me!)
But now, I must go. A bell summons me out into the bleak unknown. I ask not for whom it tolls. It tolls for me. It is breakfast time.
I do hate it here.
Have just returned from "Breakfast with Dr. Suess." Green eggs and ham. YUCK-O! Would like to assert the hypothesis that earth worms eat better than this! I sat alone at a long table (cold metal I might add) in a corner of the dining hall. I was at rest. I was at peace. Unfortunately, this contemplative solitude was soon interrupted by a fat kid with glasses, who plopped himself down next to me. Dweeb. He said hello and introduced himself as Julian Hulakowski. I laughed at him. I mean, come on, Julian Hulakowski? What kind of name is that? How could one help but laugh? Hula-Face took it well. Actually, he may not have even noticed. He spent most of breakfast with his mouth three inches from his plate, shoveling in the grub like it was his last meal. In between shovels he talked about jet fighters, cherry bombs, and Nazi Germany. When he got up to leave he asked me what my name was. I lied.
I hate where I am.
August 11, 1972
When I return to civilization, I am checking with a lawyer to see if I can press charges against my parents for the detrimental effect this experience is having on my natural maturation process.
Hula-Face sat next to me at dinner tonight. Asked if I would like to play "NRA meeting" after we ate. He frightens me. I told him no, took my tray, and went off singing, "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"
August 12, 1972
Dreamt last night that I was the editor of Guns and Ammo. Woke up in a cold sweat. At breakfast, Boy Scout Bic sat at my table, along with a couple of boys who I know wanted to hurt me. I could see it in their eyes. I could tell. They wanted to hurt me. I'm very sensitive to these things, you know. Hula-Face soon joined us and began a conversation on the joys of fish-gutting. (He's a charmer, that one.) The other boys at the table wanted to hurt Hula-Face, too. I wanted to hurt Hula-Face. I'm beginning to crack.
Had lunch. Food was gross. Didn't see Hula-Face.
Ate dinner alone. No sign of H.F. Tried to find him. No luck.
August 13, 1972
I write from within the dark caverns of my itchy puke-green blanket. My only light is my Mickey Mouse Flash-A-Lot Light Stick. Lights out was at 9:30, but I have to write. Something strange happened today. H.F.'s parents came up and took him home. I didn't see H.F., but I heard Boy Scout Bic tell his parents that he was very sorry and that this had never happened before. I'm not sure what "this" was but Mrs. H. was crying and Mr. H. looked pretty angry. I hope H.F. is okay. I hope he's not in any trouble or anything.
I better go to sleep. Tomorrow is my last day of camp (Hallelujah!) and I have to get up early and pack.
Can't sleep. Keep thinking about H.F. Feel bad that I didn't get to say goodbye. Hope he's all right.
Note to myself: Get address from Bic.
Good night, Julian.
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