Another day
It seems as though decades have passed since school began. Time no longer has meaning to me, as hope of graduation or even ascension through the strange, abstract grades of Riverdale High have long since faded. Though chronologically I know that many decades have come and gone since my arrival in this benighted place, those hideous automatons I have dubbed friends and I remain unchanged.
Life has devolved into a preposterous comedy of predictable mediocrity, and I fear there is nothing I can do to escape it. In my long and wretched existence I have hunted the paranormal, engaged in time travel, and even been hunted by a murderous vigilante going by the name of, "The Punisher." In this world of unchanging post-war aesthetic and mad scientists generating violent robots, still my life never seems to deviate far from the ever-predictable norm.
Betty bored me once again with her asinine astrological signs today, followed by another gout of Veronica's classist prattle. I would be angered by this, but the potency of such emotions has long since drained from me. I feel no joy or sadness, no rage or love for those around me. If the constant exposure and sheer predictability of these two dimensional parodies of the living can generate anything within me, it is a cold, callous contempt. It is little wonder that in this world of black and white moralism I have spent something like sixty years leading on the same pair of insipid women. Their fawning, while disgustingly pathetic, is my only pleasure, as this at least ensures that they as members of the ensemble of tormentors that fill my personal mundane hell know some degree of uncertainty and pain within their lives.
Once again Forscythe, "Jugghead," Jones has improbably staved off the inevitable death by heart failure and colonic deterioration that logically should come from a life gluttony and sheer red meat consumption, at least for one more day. The horrid infant will not shut up about his hamburgers. I pray to whatever cruel god is listening that his death will find him quickly, almost as much as I do for my own.
Another day of my nihilistic existence having passed, as monotonous and devastatingly purile as all those that came before it, I have grown too tired to go on. I leave you now to sleep, knowing within the fathomless pit of my heart that tomorrow promises only more of the same. I will never leave Riverdale, never graduate this damnable high school, and never truly live. Should anyone ever find and read this letter to the ages, I beg you to find within yourself the courage to do what I cannot and kill me.
Archibald Andrews, resident of Riverdale, state undisclosed, U.S.
Life has devolved into a preposterous comedy of predictable mediocrity, and I fear there is nothing I can do to escape it. In my long and wretched existence I have hunted the paranormal, engaged in time travel, and even been hunted by a murderous vigilante going by the name of, "The Punisher." In this world of unchanging post-war aesthetic and mad scientists generating violent robots, still my life never seems to deviate far from the ever-predictable norm.
Betty bored me once again with her asinine astrological signs today, followed by another gout of Veronica's classist prattle. I would be angered by this, but the potency of such emotions has long since drained from me. I feel no joy or sadness, no rage or love for those around me. If the constant exposure and sheer predictability of these two dimensional parodies of the living can generate anything within me, it is a cold, callous contempt. It is little wonder that in this world of black and white moralism I have spent something like sixty years leading on the same pair of insipid women. Their fawning, while disgustingly pathetic, is my only pleasure, as this at least ensures that they as members of the ensemble of tormentors that fill my personal mundane hell know some degree of uncertainty and pain within their lives.
Once again Forscythe, "Jugghead," Jones has improbably staved off the inevitable death by heart failure and colonic deterioration that logically should come from a life gluttony and sheer red meat consumption, at least for one more day. The horrid infant will not shut up about his hamburgers. I pray to whatever cruel god is listening that his death will find him quickly, almost as much as I do for my own.
Another day of my nihilistic existence having passed, as monotonous and devastatingly purile as all those that came before it, I have grown too tired to go on. I leave you now to sleep, knowing within the fathomless pit of my heart that tomorrow promises only more of the same. I will never leave Riverdale, never graduate this damnable high school, and never truly live. Should anyone ever find and read this letter to the ages, I beg you to find within yourself the courage to do what I cannot and kill me.
Archibald Andrews, resident of Riverdale, state undisclosed, U.S.