I have too much damn pride, that’s the problem. If you ever want to know a good definition of pride, ask me and I’ll tell you. In fact, I don’t even have to tell you, you’ll just know once you get through this story. That is, if I finish it, because part of the problem is, I never stick to things. I never stick to anything. I start hating everything eventually. I’ll probably start to hate writing this story too, so I don’t know if I’ll end up finishing it. In fact, I already sort of do hate it: it reminds me of my old journals, and I used to burn them every so often. Nothing matters anymore, though, not even my pride. All I have left to do now is to write and look back one last time, like a soldier taking one last morbid peak at his mangled leg before it is amputated, raging and screaming in self-pity. There is no satisfaction in seeing any of it one last time, but you absolutely must look.
