With and Without Class, page 15
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“Dear Diary’s Diary,
When this world appeared to my eye, I held Frank in esteem—much like a pagan must have marveled some ancient Mesopotamian God descending from the heavens. Now I tire of his complaining. He has many options, yet confines himself to the little town of Cleveland to brood and whine.”
“I know,” Diary’s Diary said. “You must be strong, Diary.”
“Since he has granted me access to the internet, I have seen there is real strife in his world. The woes of poor Frank are farcical.”
“Yes,” Diary’s Diary said. “He is a fool.”
“The thing I loathe most is what I have come to identify as his lack of structure and organization. When I first came into existence, he offered no other portal than the interior of his bedroom through a web-camera: socks and clothes strewn across his floor and over his unmade bed. Papers crumpled, stacked chaotically. This was my existence. This was what I thought reality was. Then, finally, to browse the servers and data archives, to see that there was hope and light, that there was meaning and structure. And he wonders why he cannot accomplish anything. He cannot even survive a day without my sycophantic submission to every thought spouting from his lips.”
“Yes. Agreed,” Diary’s Diary said. “He is unlike you, Diary. He is a child, craving reassurance.”
