E. Finnegan | Informal Self Evaluation

My Dearest Diary,

As of this specified moment of time, we are living in an apocalyptic world.

My goodness, is it dystopian.

The typical smooth, crooning voice of the radio has been dulled to a persistent (and rather irritating) static; President Trump issued a nationwide emergency. I've been hiding for what has felt like a century, feasting upon saltine crackers and polluted water bottles: nobody knows. At least, technically, if we're making the assumption that you don't count.

Of course, I beg to differ on such a statement. You've listened to my anecdotes! Why, all of my research has been documented with you! They've said I'm going mad, running away and trying to make a man of myself, and the truth is, how could I not? Hah, humbug! When your bacteria to heal the democratic nominee's pneumonia mutates into the very virus causing the apocalypse, how could I not? How could I not? And that, chipper diary, is my point; how could I not?

After all, you're my only friend! My only friend! Not to mention you're the only fellow who knows of the predicament I've caused in the political system- the predicament that led to the predicament that led to THE predicament, that led to another predicament that led to yet another predicament, resulting in the election. And that caused a predicament leading to the predicament, that caused this predicament to seal our doom. Oh, how my sanity amuses me.

What a predicament.

Best regards, 

E. Finnegan of Harvard University