The Diary of Antoine Roquentin

Uncle died today.
Or maybe it was yesterday, I don’t know.

No, it was today. My cell phone barely works in the dorms, and my mom had called two or three times while I slept. I remember telling her she was in my dream, before she told me.

I didn’t know what to do—I stayed in bed until 3:30 in the afternoon.

Woke up

Made breakfast

Washed my clothes

Took a shower

(we must continue to do our routines, never stopping, never stopping)

Went to my American Lit class, and surprise surprise we’re discussing Emily Dickinson’s poems about death. I felt this one the most apropos.

Safe in their Alabaster Chambers—
Untouched by Morning
And untouched by Noon—
Lie the meek members of the Resurrection—
Rafter of Satin—and Roof of Stone!

Grand go the Years—in the Crescent—above them—
Worlds scoop their Arcs—
And Firmaments—row—
Diadems—drop—and Doges—surrender—
Soundless as dots—on a Disc of Snow—

Roommates were listening to gangsta rap all morning—I wanted to walk over and switch off the circuit breaker. Found out the cafeteria doesn’t take credit cards…wtf is up with that? The bitch was really rude about it too, I took it out and she just gave me this condescending look. I hope she finds centipedes in her vagina.

I’m having a beer and trying to think about doing this essay for my methods of literary analysis class. I called and asked my mom whether I should come home today or miss my classes, and Grandma said that I should go to class. After all, the first viewing isn’t until Thursday.

The death just doesn’t feel real here at the university. Nothing ever feels real here, it’s like I’m fourteen once I walk through the student center. Some might find that liberating, but I hate it. I hate being around these childish imbeciles for three days a week. People were throwing snowballs and rocks at our window earlier.

Most of the people in my classes aren’t really trying to be writers, they want to teach third grade and instill them with the same lasseiz-faire bullshit that has destroyed our society.

I saw my uncle a few days ago in the care facility—he was so tired, kept slipping off to sleep. He was on oxygen, which is always a sign that the end is near. He could barely remember us, but he would always respond to my mother’s voice when she told him what the nurses wanted. When we left, I said goodbye, but I couldn’t tell from looking in his eyes whether he knew who I was or not.

The banter of my roommates continue in the background—flies buzzing a melody of football and corrupt bourgeois values.

I need to write this damn essay or there’s no reason to actually show up on Wednesday.

I know this post has been kind of a downer, but I leave you with some humor from the Ten Word Wiki’s article on broccoli.