People call me honest and mysterious, but I've never met a person more dull and insincere than myself.

You know how this goes, right? 'Dear diary, today I went shopping, met a few people, dreamt this and that' etc, etc, etc... Well, screw that. Screw everything, okay? I've been staring at this blank page for hours, writing, deleting, rewriting and so on and so forth. I know what you're going to say... 'Well, someone's moody and unproductive today!' Well, screw you too. I have to do this. Not because my stupid therapist told me to, but because... Because I need this. I need you. Or any of you. I need to talk to you. I might as well give you a name, right? What about... Nicholas? What do you think? Do you mind? I don't think you would. You don't exist anyway...

So, hey, Nicholas. How are you? Name's Hogan. Your new best friend. Do you think it's crazy to have an imaginary friend? I wouldn't blame you if you were to say yes. I wouldn't blame you if you were to call me other names as well. But you won't because you like me, right? I know, I know... I am nothing special and my life isn't particularly interesting. I'm just an ordinary person, proven problematic by the so-called 'society'. Don't tell anyone that, okay? It'll be our secret. It's supposed to be a secret. My... "therapist" knows as well, but he doesn't count. Because doctors and the suchlike tell no tales, right? Confidentiality is key. At least, I hope he doesn't tell. Not that anyone would be interested in listening to my story... I know, I know, just stop it already. Stop complaining. I won't whine anymore.

You see, this is an undercover diary. I shouldn't be saying this, but I think you should know. I will tell you stuff that happens, but I won't tell you any names. So, I'm going to make them up for you, okay? For example, this girl that lives in that building next to mine, on the same floor as me, I'm going to call her... Violet. That's her favourite lipstick colour. Or I think it is. Because that's the one she's always putting on when he's wearing important clothes. I don't think it suits him very much, but if she likes it, then who am I to speak up, right?

I'd like to tell you why I decided to write this. Well, for starters, my therapist told me to. Yes, yes, I know. I've mentioned that. I should be more careful about what I write. Let's see... I'm writing this mostly because I need to keep my shit together. Have a proper order in my life. Because apparently I have too much free time and allow dreadful thoughts to get through my mind. Because I need some sort of distraction and I can't afford to go out for drinks. Because when I start, it won't end. Bottomless. And the money flies away. And I don't have that much money. I know, I know, I did it again. But it's not my fault that everything revolves around the green, merciless made up God that everyone worships and adores! And I can't do anything to change it...

I'd like to tell you a little about my doctor. The "therapist". What a joke that word is. We're going to call him... 'Mr. Dickhead'. Because that's what he is. A dickhead. You may be wondering why do I keep on seeing him, since I don't like him, and I'll just answer you with this: I have no other choice. Because I have to be under constant surveillance of a psychiatrist and he is the easiest one to get in touch with. It didn't take me too long to figure out why. He must be the worst doctor I've ever encountered. It's so bad it makes me sick to my stomach. How the fuck did he become one? I really do wonder. But I don't have a choice. Just take what you can get.

I'd like to tell you now about my expenses. They can be divided into six parts. Taxes and rent, doctor, food, meds, smoke. I don't like owing money or favours. I just don't. That's why I try my best to always pay or do what I have to do, even if it means to starve myself or work a shitload of hours just to have the minimum. But sometimes, things go well and I get to keep some for myself. What do I do with those? I buy wine. Sometimes weed. I know, I know... Poor choices. But they are those that give me a few moments of bliss. A window to heaven? Perhaps. Even if I feel like shit afterwards, I don't mind. I'm used to feeling like shit. But I'm not used to feeling happy, even if it's an artificial kind of happy. And I don't have anything else to do. Buy gifts? Why bother? And everything else I like it's out there if you know how to look for it. Without being caught...

I'm not going to tell you about my past. I don't want to. Not yet at least... But I will tell you about my job. I work at a small theatre nearby, let's call it 'Props'. I'm an usher. That means I show people to their seats. Sometimes I get to watch movies if it's not too crowded. Its owner, let's call her 'Mrs Props', is a kind and smart woman. She doesn't pay me much, because I don't do much, and she is afraid to give me more things to do. Why? I wish I knew... One day, though, she decided to have a 'Retro Week' kind of thing. A lot of people came and I got to show them to their seats and there was a huge line at the cafeteria, so I got to help serve popcorn. It wasn't that difficult... They even gave me an appropriate outfit, with bowtie, a fancy red hat and everything. But it was only for one week. After that, I returned to showing people to their seats with my flashlight and I had to give the outfit back to Mrs Props. I hope she does the 'Retro Week' again.

... Don't get me wrong, I am not a bad person. Just sad. Lonely. Too lonely sometimes. I try not to cry, but if I don't, I think my head will blow into pieces. I think it's alright for people to cry. We have that kind of freedom and no one can take it away from us. 'Boys don't cry' they say. That's the biggest lie I've ever heard in my short life. I mean, yes, it might make you feel embarrassed. Even disgusting. A pathetic life form. It turns other people into sympathetic monsters. Let me tell you though, I don't like getting that. I'm not a goddamn puppy. I'm a person. A person who needs to be understood. To be heard and to be talked to. I think you get me, Nicholas, don't you?

Right now, there's one question going through my mind, so I'd like to discuss that for a moment. What do you think a friend is? Someone told me that friends are people with whom you spend a lot of time together. Is that true? I doubt it. Because I don't feel I'm friends with Mr Dickhead or Mrs Props. Sometimes I think about it and all I can come up with is that this might be true on some level, but what really makes a friend is how much you want to spend time with them. Even if it is once in a while, hell, if it's once a year or a decade. If you long to see them and have fun when you are with them, then that's friendship. I never really had the chance to test this theory, except for now. That's what I think about you and it really makes me wish you were real so I can tell you all this in person and make you smile. And it'd make me happy. Just that.

Shit... I got too carried away... I'm already out of smoke. I guess I'll end this here. It was nice talking to you, I hope I didn't bore you. If I did and you didn't leave, then you are very kind but don't do it again. You don't need to be dishonest. It's 2 a.m. by the way, I have to go to sleep and wake up at 10 to go to 'Props'. Sometimes I hope the radiator would stop working in the middle of the night while I'm asleep and froze to death, you know...

Let's talk again sometime.

Goodbye.