My City: An Experiment in Diary Entries

January 30, 2011
The hipsters are destroying my city.
My brother called me last week to tell me he spotted one downtown, cursing against a blank canvas, smoking a non-filtered cigarette.
Apparently they're ruining his city, too.
We've waged a silent war against them.
But it rains a lot in Portland, so that could account for the fact that they're troubled. Here in Silverlake they have no plausable excuse.
Girls with unique taste in earthy gear populate my city streets and swarm through back alleys and the suicide rates soar, just as their numbers increase. Ironic.
Ultra femme self-proclaimed artistic and musician boys do the same.
I'm at a loss for words.
I put my worries on paper, hoping that some of my writing will alleviate the worry that consumes me.

February 16, 2011
Their ultra liberal views of the world are verging on insanity. This I can see, while I have trouble defining the truths in my own life.
We were raised republican, my brother and I, so I say nothing to him about my silent expedition to the Planned Parenthood in Van Nuys and my second trimester abortion. The thing was so last minute.
I'm confused about who I should elect next term.
We just fume about the lack of jobs available on the market. The hipsters are baristas who serve poison to people like us who see the world for what it is: a tragedy.
Dear City,
You’ve created a perfect environment for these lowlifes at age 22. But what happens when they're 35 and trying to raise a family? A barista salary just won't cut it.
Maybe their music will help them to forget the hard times.
Truth is, I'm worried about what this world will look like when I'm aging.

February 27, 2011
I fear my words have turned to art. I'm not an artist, just a realist.
The hipster next door left macaroons on my doorstep this morning. She knows I haven't left my apartment in a week and a half.
She's worried.
I wish I could voice my concern for her too. Only I wouldn't do it with cookies. I'd tell her to look at what her world has become. Try painting your misery with your oil pastels and then you’ll really be at a loss.
I drew myself a bath.

February 28, 2011
I cradle the phone between my right shoulder and my right cheek as I make small incisions on my toes with a Swiss army knife.
I grimace at the pain but do not let my brother hear it through my voice.
He tells me of recent sightings and I reply with an appropriate “Unh huh” at appropriate intervals. I concentrate more on my feet than I do on his words.
The blood from my toes swirls into the warm bathwater and I watch as the two liquids vanish into each other. It becomes hard to tell t