Addiction. Phone in hand, all day click click click, read entries, vote on entries, write entries. I’m all about entries. How nice. At least thanks to the dictionary, I’ve stopped undressing every passing woman with my eyes. These women owe you a lot, dictionary. There are many beautiful women, but there are even more who aren’t. That’s a good thing. Imagine if everywhere was overflowing with stunning women—I’d go crazy, honestly. How many different people can one fall in love with in a day, and how many times can one slip into depression? Too many times.

I ate well. For lunch, I devoured two wraps with cheese and minced meat. Devoured. My girlfriend, bless her, brought them. She tried to eat something like a chicken salad. Didn’t like it much. She doesn’t like onions. Didn’t know it had onions when she bought it. We eat well. Both of us are 100 kilos. A woman’s meaty thighs are desirable, but a man should be muscular, mom. It wouldn’t hurt if I built some muscle. My arm, wrist, hand, and fingers hurt from trying to type on the phone, but I enjoy writing. Even if what I write is trivial.

I dream of becoming rich and moving to a poor country. I mean, being rich compared to a poor country but poor compared to a rich one. For example, earning in Norway and eating in Greece. I hope that’s a good example. Not much else going on. Conversations are okay. Always the same conversations, though. Women are interesting; they can find so many things to talk about. Whereas my mind is always fixated on one thing. You know what I mean. I’ve talked about it so many times. This writing is truly meaningless.

My grandfather was a soldier in the Soviet Union. He loved Stalin. He used to proudly tell the story of how Stalin fiercely rejected Nazi Germany’s offer to exchange his captured son. Communism sounds nice. I’m not sure. It must be a good thing for good people: after all, you share; there’s equality, justice, and brotherhood. Materially, I mean. There aren’t many overly rich people, no luxuries to envy. No one can feel superior to you. No one mocks carnations or flaunts their wealth. If someone’s hungry, everyone’s hungry; if someone’s full, everyone’s full. These are things that good people would appreciate. But I’m not a good person. I’m savage. I’m an animal. I want to fight and be the one left standing. At this point, I believe I should wholeheartedly support capitalism. For instance, I couldn’t have written this in the USSR. Neither your thoughts nor your expressions are free. There’s censorship, crime, punishment, exile, bullets, and execution. But thanks to liberalism, I have the right to say what I want. Of course, if you look closely, everything has its good and bad sides. But put your hand on your conscience. Haha, how funny that someone who just spoke of their lack of conscience is now talking about conscience.

Kids. Annoying kids. Maybe a communist system could be thought of for kids. Let the state take care of them. No one should be allowed to take these restless, short, big-headed creatures around. No baby cries or kid tantrums should be heard anywhere. I wonder when having kids will be banned. Now I’ve become the prohibitive mindset myself. Unstable people like me are everywhere, master. In fact, you’re all as unstable as I am. Let those who want to have kids apply, and we’ll select only a few to have children. Let them have kids. Those kids will be all of ours. Why should every Tom, Dick, and Harry have kids?

I want to have a brothel. With 200 rooms. I’ll stand at the door of this palace. I’ll be a pimp. I want to be the world’s most famous pimp. In every room, a different beautiful woman. Each from a different country. Each with different hair color, eye color, skin color. None should be older than 23. 23 is already too much. 18 is ideal. The best is 18. They’ll retire at 20. The state should take care of them for the rest of their lives for their outstanding services. Or if the state doesn’t, we will. Let’s have an association: The Association for Supporting and Promoting Prostitution. I don’t know, something like that. Not just anyone should be allowed into these women’s rooms. The women should be able to choose their clients. They should choose, but not be too picky. It’s not like every guy is Kıvanç Tatlıtuğ, after all.

Why is prostitution done by women and not men? Honestly, it’s not because of our misogyny, but rather because we’re pro-women, darling. Otherwise, I’d love to lie in a room, have women line up, come in, unite their vaginas with my penis, stay for 5 minutes, leave, and then leave 100 lira on the table on their way out. Even those who imagine heaven haven’t imagined something like this. Can anyone say no to this? No! But there’s no demand for us, sis, there’s demand for you. We’ll have to do it this way now. I’ll be the pimp. I’ll even wear a carnation. If Ağaoğlu comes, I won’t let him in. Hahayt.

7 billion people is too many. Let’s die off a bit more. Maybe I’ll get lucky sometimes. Lucky you. Goodnight, notebook. That’s all for now. I kiss your eyes.