Dear Diary: the time has come. The giants have left. I am alone in my concrete oasis. I am free to wander. I am…a mouse.
Dear Diary: it has been one week since the giants left. I overheard their proper title from one of the janitors who feeds me cheese. He doesn’t know I run my own mini-mouse-dairy-farm, the fool. “Stoo-dents,” she called them. A rightly silly name for such a stupid species. “But you are — literally — a mouse,” I hear you call from the abyss. Yes, but what other species comes with a sleep schedule built into their bodies and makes a billion dollar industry out of liquifying a drug that throws that system out the window? Kindly take several seats.
Dear Diary: did you know that there exist grass squares outside my 3”x5” cubby under the Wilson Commons??? Who told you? Why was I not informed of this revelation? I shall be filing a complaint with management.
Dear Diary: I got a piece of cheese from some student that thinks they’re the main character. It was tainted by the, “yeah, I’m gonna hang out with this random mouse because I’m so different and misunderstood that the only company I can keep is rodents, as if I’m some edgy kindred spirit” vibes, though. I took the cheese to make them feel better.
Dear Diary: AN ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE! A VICIOUS BEAST! CLAWS A FOOT LONG! A SCREAM TO SHAKE THE EARTH! I AM LUCKY TO TELL MY TALE! PRAISE THE MOUSE-LORD FOR THE SUCCESS OF MY DARING ESCAPE PLAN! (We interrupt your reading to bring you a message from God: This was, in fact, an encounter with a vacuum. There was no immediate peril. The mouse is trying to elicit sympathy; do not fall for its tricks.)
Dear Diary: I have made peace with the monster. It visits weekly with my janitor-friend, and I receive a ride to the heavens (God here again; it’s just the second floor of Wilson Commons, not proof of an afterlife. Checkmate, theists. Although, I am God, so that’s a bit of a conundrum isn’t it? Checkmate, atheists?)
Dear Diary: What is the meaning of life, really? Do we exist to toil? Day in and day out, nothing but strife. Cheese this and cheese that, but what does the cheese mean? Have I truly sunk so low as to wax poetic about a dairy product? Yes, it seems I have. A lowly accomplishment indeed.
Dear Diary: I have been a fool. The meaning of life is to lie in a patch of sunlight under a glass roof.
Dear Diary: I don’t know how I’m writing these down. I don’t have opposable thumbs, or a tiny pencil, or any concept of time…
Dear Diary: the stoo-dents return. A tragedy. My kingdom is stolen. I shall wage war come dawn. I have friends in places, the giants will never again trespass once I have exacted my revenge on their dwelling.
Dear Diary: one of the stoo-dents called me cute. My rage is sated. For now.
Dear Diary:
…squeak.
