ali, a mop (that i forgot about), a sports drama.
Friday, October 17th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
Today is the 2 week anniversary since I broke my leg, and ultimately, ruined my future. On a happier note, I know longer have the undeniable urge to kill the linebacker who took everything from me in one swift tackle. The urgency for homicide has been replaced by the misery of suicide. I have nothing. I am nothing.
I haven't left the house, save for going to the doctors. When my friends or teammates show up with delusive Get Well Wishes or counterfeit smiles and off-key sympathy, I have my mother send them away. I don't want anyone's false hope or optimism. I will not lie in this bed basking in denial. I don't want sympathy, I want my future back.
The doctor says I'm well enough to attend school on Monday. Let's hope my seemingly flawless act of content behavior isn't as see through as the aforementioned Get Well Wishes. In other words, let's hope my peers can't tell how miserable I truly am. Although no longer the starting quarter-back for Hollidaysburgh Area Highschool, I still feel it's my position to be a positive role model for the student body and remain incognito with my true defiance and now contemptuous outlook on life.
Monday, October 20th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
To Hell with the positive role model shit. And to Hell with Jordan Stanzio. His arm is almost as weak as his feeble mind. And Coach McCoy actually had the audacity to ask me to "give the kid a few pointers." I agreed to, once again not letting my true self be shown. Not letting on that such effrontery is disrespectful and disgusting.
If Shakespeare was right. If that faggot was right about one thing it is that the world truly is a stage. And the spotlight has blinded me.
Thursday, October 23rd, 1989.
Dear Journal,
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We seem to be plunging into a downward spiral of depression, despair, anxiety, loneliness, bitterness, and worst of all. . .unmitigating fear of the future's uncertainty."
Friday, October 24th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
Today the lightning crashed less than a foot in front of me.
The most beautiful girl I have ever seen just moved into town. Her name is Ali, short for Alicia and she is the closet thing to perfect any mortal could be. In fact, as she stood in front of the class and Mrs. Rinehold introduced her I was anxious to see her back, for I was certain I would see wings.
As Mom drove me home from school, I happened to see her walking into her new home. She lives about 7 blocks from me. If I weren't homebound by my leg and my own self-pity, I could walk to see her. I'm getting ahead of myself, though. First, I need to strike up a conversation.
God, she's so beautiful.
Sunday, October 26th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
It's funny how things change. Several weeks ago if I were to talk down Chestnut Street I would see trees, I would see houses, I would hear the Woods' dog barking, and maybe I would see some children playing in the street. Today as I walked down Chestnut Street on my way to get Ali to take her to the movies, I still saw all those things but for the first time in my life I truly in every sense of the word saw them. The trees were lush and gigantic and I appreciated the true aesthetics of their wisdom and wondered of the stories they could tell. How they crack in the wind and whisper great tales mistaken for yarn by mortals. And I know that the new arrival of this one girl will certainly impact this year's ring in their trunks. I know a century from now in their last days they will whisper and crack a story of a great love and a wonderful summer. And the homes I saw became my own, as I'll walk in the door from a hard day at work and Ali will greet me with a kiss. The children were also my own, or rather our own. This might sound foolish, but these are my aspirations. Suddenly, nothing matters. I know I'm so simple-minded for thinking this, but I truly believe she is the one. I sincerely feel this is the first and last girl I will ever love in my life.
The date went amazingly. We saw the movie "Batman." But really all I saw was her smile spread during the funny moments, and her chest heave during the intense moments. I am beyond enamored, journal. I am beyond infatuated. I am in love.
Tuesday, November 15th, 1989.
Dear Neglected Old Friend,
It's been quite some time. A lot has happened in my life. Ali and I are now dating and were intimate for the first time last night. I know it seems quick, but emotions and feelings don't play by the rules.
We went for a picnic down by the stream. It was so picturesque. It was like something you'd read about in a book titled The Great Love We All Desire or something of that nature. It was slow, it was passionate and it was beautiful.
Something happened, though. Afterwards as we were lying in the grass holding each other, I kisser her and told her I loved her and she wept. She wouldn't tell me why and she tried to hide it, but she most definitely was crying. It was rather unnerving and continues to worry me endlessly and mercilessly.
I've also since gotten my cast off and the doctors have been optimistic. Saying that my quick healing was unnatural and that I might be able to play football my senior year. Ali seemed very excited when I told her the news. She told me I should play next year because it's going to be a really good way to keep my mind off of stuff. What stuff?
My father won't shut up about me getting to lifting weights again and training for next season. He seems a tad vexed about how much time I spend with Ali too. I wish he knew that football isn't my future, Ali is my future.
I haven't been reading or writing much at all lately. I miss it.
Why on Earth did she cry?
Friday, November 25th, 1989.
She's leaving. She's leaving Hollidaysburg to move to Pasadena, California. She's leaving. Her father got a job offered he couldn't turn down. She's known for quite some time but was afraid to tell me.
I wish I could hate her. No, I don't. I wish I could pay her father to stay here. Money is dwarfed by love. Can't he see we are meant to be with one another? Like clockwork everything in my life that is wonderful slowly spoils.
The deep, black void that used to be my heart has now returned.
Monday, January 14th, 1990.
It's a new decade, but old pains still haunt me. This will be my final journal entry. I bought this journal two years ago to vent and to write down my feelings. I feel nothing now.
I read through past entries reminisce of better times. Even when I thought the world was over, like when I failed that test in Trig, there was always a clear sky on the horizon. Well a horizon no longer exists. The sun will not rise when you're living in eternal darkness. The sun will not rise.
There is no future. The future is just an empty promise given to us by some false higher power so we'll keep trying. And like foolish little lemmings we all follow and fall to our death. If this is read by anyone, stop the train. Turn around now, save yourself. Don't fall.
Good-bye Journal, you've been a great friend.
Sincerely,
Matthew R. McCormick
Dear Journal,
Today is the 2 week anniversary since I broke my leg, and ultimately, ruined my future. On a happier note, I know longer have the undeniable urge to kill the linebacker who took everything from me in one swift tackle. The urgency for homicide has been replaced by the misery of suicide. I have nothing. I am nothing.
I haven't left the house, save for going to the doctors. When my friends or teammates show up with delusive Get Well Wishes or counterfeit smiles and off-key sympathy, I have my mother send them away. I don't want anyone's false hope or optimism. I will not lie in this bed basking in denial. I don't want sympathy, I want my future back.
The doctor says I'm well enough to attend school on Monday. Let's hope my seemingly flawless act of content behavior isn't as see through as the aforementioned Get Well Wishes. In other words, let's hope my peers can't tell how miserable I truly am. Although no longer the starting quarter-back for Hollidaysburgh Area Highschool, I still feel it's my position to be a positive role model for the student body and remain incognito with my true defiance and now contemptuous outlook on life.
Monday, October 20th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
To Hell with the positive role model shit. And to Hell with Jordan Stanzio. His arm is almost as weak as his feeble mind. And Coach McCoy actually had the audacity to ask me to "give the kid a few pointers." I agreed to, once again not letting my true self be shown. Not letting on that such effrontery is disrespectful and disgusting.
If Shakespeare was right. If that faggot was right about one thing it is that the world truly is a stage. And the spotlight has blinded me.
Thursday, October 23rd, 1989.
Dear Journal,
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We seem to be plunging into a downward spiral of depression, despair, anxiety, loneliness, bitterness, and worst of all. . .unmitigating fear of the future's uncertainty."
Friday, October 24th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
Today the lightning crashed less than a foot in front of me.
The most beautiful girl I have ever seen just moved into town. Her name is Ali, short for Alicia and she is the closet thing to perfect any mortal could be. In fact, as she stood in front of the class and Mrs. Rinehold introduced her I was anxious to see her back, for I was certain I would see wings.
As Mom drove me home from school, I happened to see her walking into her new home. She lives about 7 blocks from me. If I weren't homebound by my leg and my own self-pity, I could walk to see her. I'm getting ahead of myself, though. First, I need to strike up a conversation.
God, she's so beautiful.
Sunday, October 26th, 1989.
Dear Journal,
It's funny how things change. Several weeks ago if I were to talk down Chestnut Street I would see trees, I would see houses, I would hear the Woods' dog barking, and maybe I would see some children playing in the street. Today as I walked down Chestnut Street on my way to get Ali to take her to the movies, I still saw all those things but for the first time in my life I truly in every sense of the word saw them. The trees were lush and gigantic and I appreciated the true aesthetics of their wisdom and wondered of the stories they could tell. How they crack in the wind and whisper great tales mistaken for yarn by mortals. And I know that the new arrival of this one girl will certainly impact this year's ring in their trunks. I know a century from now in their last days they will whisper and crack a story of a great love and a wonderful summer. And the homes I saw became my own, as I'll walk in the door from a hard day at work and Ali will greet me with a kiss. The children were also my own, or rather our own. This might sound foolish, but these are my aspirations. Suddenly, nothing matters. I know I'm so simple-minded for thinking this, but I truly believe she is the one. I sincerely feel this is the first and last girl I will ever love in my life.
The date went amazingly. We saw the movie "Batman." But really all I saw was her smile spread during the funny moments, and her chest heave during the intense moments. I am beyond enamored, journal. I am beyond infatuated. I am in love.
Tuesday, November 15th, 1989.
Dear Neglected Old Friend,
It's been quite some time. A lot has happened in my life. Ali and I are now dating and were intimate for the first time last night. I know it seems quick, but emotions and feelings don't play by the rules.
We went for a picnic down by the stream. It was so picturesque. It was like something you'd read about in a book titled The Great Love We All Desire or something of that nature. It was slow, it was passionate and it was beautiful.
Something happened, though. Afterwards as we were lying in the grass holding each other, I kisser her and told her I loved her and she wept. She wouldn't tell me why and she tried to hide it, but she most definitely was crying. It was rather unnerving and continues to worry me endlessly and mercilessly.
I've also since gotten my cast off and the doctors have been optimistic. Saying that my quick healing was unnatural and that I might be able to play football my senior year. Ali seemed very excited when I told her the news. She told me I should play next year because it's going to be a really good way to keep my mind off of stuff. What stuff?
My father won't shut up about me getting to lifting weights again and training for next season. He seems a tad vexed about how much time I spend with Ali too. I wish he knew that football isn't my future, Ali is my future.
I haven't been reading or writing much at all lately. I miss it.
Why on Earth did she cry?
Friday, November 25th, 1989.
She's leaving. She's leaving Hollidaysburg to move to Pasadena, California. She's leaving. Her father got a job offered he couldn't turn down. She's known for quite some time but was afraid to tell me.
I wish I could hate her. No, I don't. I wish I could pay her father to stay here. Money is dwarfed by love. Can't he see we are meant to be with one another? Like clockwork everything in my life that is wonderful slowly spoils.
The deep, black void that used to be my heart has now returned.
Monday, January 14th, 1990.
It's a new decade, but old pains still haunt me. This will be my final journal entry. I bought this journal two years ago to vent and to write down my feelings. I feel nothing now.
I read through past entries reminisce of better times. Even when I thought the world was over, like when I failed that test in Trig, there was always a clear sky on the horizon. Well a horizon no longer exists. The sun will not rise when you're living in eternal darkness. The sun will not rise.
There is no future. The future is just an empty promise given to us by some false higher power so we'll keep trying. And like foolish little lemmings we all follow and fall to our death. If this is read by anyone, stop the train. Turn around now, save yourself. Don't fall.
Good-bye Journal, you've been a great friend.
Sincerely,
Matthew R. McCormick