January 5, 2026, Monday.
Somerset, Pennsylvania.

A new year has begun. The search for excitement starts immediately whenever a new year kicks off. Will something new happen? People get so bored if nothing new occurs.

And something brand new did happen. Our President Donald Trump went to Venezuela, put their president in a sack, and brought him back to America. I mean, what more could you want? There’s your excitement.

Could such a thing have been predicted? Hardly. And it didn’t even end there. Greenland is next. There are events in Iran. Things are being said about Cuba.

Adrenaline is at its peak. It’s impossible for us to be bored. We’re watching it like a match. May the best one win.

Life isn’t more than a game or a competition anyway, is it?

Yet, I had long since given up on life and entered the new year sitting on a Western-style toilet in the bathroom of a Pilot Dealer in Springfield, Illinois. Phone in hand, I was resting a bit while watching short videos on YouTube.

Then I took a shower and moved a bit further toward Nashville.

The left headlight of the Kenworth wasn’t working, so I drove to Nashville for a delivery with only one eye open, so to speak. In previous days, I was supposed to stop in Illinois to get it fixed before heading down to Nashville, but we changed our minds at the last minute. First, the delivery in Nashville, then a load to Northern Illinois, and finally, a repair or a truck swap at our own yard.

While picking up in Nashville, I had a slight argument with the Black kid doing the check-in. After a while, I felt uneasy about cursing at the guy, so I went back to the office and apologized to him. I hope he was happy about it. I felt relieved afterward. Life is too short, and it’s not worth breaking anyone’s heart. Everyone has enough trouble as it is. We shouldn’t have to deal with jerks at work, too.

He shouldn’t mess with me, and I shouldn’t mess with him.

I told him the order number, and he said he didn’t hear it and asked me to say it louder. I held the phone out to him so he wouldn’t have to struggle to hear me and could just read the number from the screen. He turned his face away. “No, you’re going to read it to me,” he said.

When he did that, it felt strange to me. I got stubborn. I didn’t read the number. That’s how the argument started. Then, somehow, the issue was resolved. I told him to call his supervisor; he called him, and we settled it with him.

The supervisor also made me read the number. Either they really have a rule like that, or the guy didn’t want his employee to look like an idiot. But at least he didn’t drag it out. He listened carefully to the numbers coming out of my mouth and sent me to my truck.

I set off for Chicago. Out of the 7.5-hour journey, I drove for 6.5 hours without stopping. It had started to snow. Since I had an extra hour, I pulled into a truck stop. However, the snowfall extended the trip. When I got back in the truck, the remaining travel time had doubled.

The broker reached the company. He said I wouldn’t make it in time and the receiver would be closed by the time I arrived. So, I didn’t go any further. I pulled over and slept.

In the morning, I drove to our yard. I left the truck with the broken headlight; the repair on my old truck, which I had left for maintenance a week ago, was finished, so I took it back. And this made me very happy. Because I’ve gotten so used to this Volvo. Being used to something is worse than being addicted. And they say God first makes his beloved servant lose his truck, then find it again. I was incredibly happy to be back in my old truck.

This time, I changed my trailer. While leaving the loaded trailer for them to deliver on Friday, I took another empty reefer trailer and went to Wisconsin to pick up a new load.

From Wisconsin back to Illinois, then Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, and finally, I made my delivery to a Walmart Distribution Center in New Mexico.

In the evening, I was going to drive to Texas to pick up a meat load. Before that, I got two slices of pizza and a small Coke at a small truck stop. They had a $7 deal like that.

Then a homeless young man came by. He was 32, but he looked younger. He was a man out of work and broke. He was actually a well-built young man, but from what I understood, his mental health was a bit unstable. He was very polite, very gentlemanly, but he was constantly talking to himself. He was waiting in line behind me at the register. He had a coffee in his hand.

But he couldn’t get the coffee. He tried to pay with a card, but since there was no money left on the card, he couldn’t buy it. He left the coffee, filled a bottle he was carrying with water from the tap for free, and was drinking it while talking to himself. He came and sat in front of me. While I was devouring my pizza, I couldn’t help but ask, “What happened to your coffee?” He said, “I didn’t have any money.” I felt ashamed of myself for eating pizza like an animal in front of the man.

“Let’s get you two pizzas, too,” I said. It’s only $7 anyway. With a soda on the side. He was very happy. He thanked me a lot. $7. It’s nice that it’s $7. Cheap. You can afford it. If it were expensive, maybe I wouldn’t have offered. I would have ignored him. I don’t know, I would have just gotten up and left. But because it’s $7, the world is ours.

“I haven’t eaten anything for 4 days,” he said. I think he was lying. And there was no need for this lie at all. But maybe it’s just become a habit for the man. Maybe he’s gotten into the habit of saying this to everyone. Habits are hard to break.

Or maybe he was telling the truth. I mean, I hope he was lying, but what if what he said was true? It’s terrifying, damn. But I still can’t bring myself to believe it. If he came to that shop every day, someone would surely buy him something. That’s my guess.

At night, with great difficulty and sleep dripping from my eyes, I arrived at the shipper in Texas. The problems of the trucking industry are never-ending.

Security said that they need to email your information to us. I notified the company. They sent the information via email.

Security said, “We don’t have access to that email. The ones in the office will see it, approve it, and notify us, then we can let you inside.”

“Okay,” I said. “When will that happen then?”

“They’ll be here at 6 in the morning,” he said.

If it were my early days, I would have revolted, but now I’m used to it. A different problem at every shipper. Every shipper has its own procedure, and you only learn this procedure when you get there. This backwardness in the America of 2026 is an absurd comedy material that’s as good as it gets. It’s unbelievable, yet it’s a reality we face every day.

Actually, I think it’s a great opportunity. Because every problem is an opportunity. Solve this problem and pocket the millions. You just need to make an app, and all the shippers’ and receivers’ check-in procedures will be there. That’s it.

Of course, easier said than done. There will surely be difficulties while making it. But whatever. What do I care? If I could make an app, I wouldn’t be a truck driver anyway.

I slept at a nearby truck stop that night. In the morning, I went back, checked in, dropped the trailer, and returned to the truck stop as a bobtail. I ate a burrito and slept. In the afternoon, the load was ready; I went and picked it up, and tomorrow morning I’ll deliver it to Philadelphia.

While I was dealing with these, Trump went and tied Maduro’s hands and feet and made a delivery to New York. Instead of being a president in Venezuela, you should be a truck driver in America. It’s safer.

I love America. I’m not against its aggressive policies either. I think anyone would do the same. Whoever gets the power in their hands, this is how it will be anyway. I’ve chosen to come here. It’s more profitable for me that the power is with them, of course. If it weren’t for America, China would make the world suffer. Or Russia, or someone else.

It’s better that it’s America. At least we’re used to it now. Habits are hard to break.

I think I’ll also say goodbye to the word “pederast.” I was using it out of habit. I mean, as a 37-year-old man, because I find 18-19-year-old girls attractive and I’m with sex workers of those ages, I was belittling myself and calling myself a pederast. But I looked at the Turkish Language Association dictionary, and it turns out pederast means “someone who feels sexual interest in children who haven’t reached puberty.” So it wasn’t a very pleasant word.

I have nothing to do with children. I don’t even like children much. I never had children of my own either. Actually, I’ve always gotten along well with other people’s children. I’ve gone to elementary schools with non-governmental organizations and done various activities with children. We always got good results there, and children always loved me there too. Because I would entertain them and make them laugh.

Anyway, you see, it’s impossible for me to have any interest in children. Writing this sentence alone took five years off my life. I like young girls. Girls who are too young for my age. But the name for that isn’t pederast. For example, there is “ephebophilia” in medical literature. Ephebophilia is said to be for those who are interested in the 15-19 age range, and it’s a normal thing, not a perversion. At least that’s what it says on the pages I’ve read.

Long story short, I’m a “youth-loving” uncle. Actually, I don’t even like youth, I don’t like anyone, but when I need love for 15 minutes, the probability of me preferring a young sex worker is high.

To be honest, the face is more important to me than the age. The look. The face. There are some faces that are very innocent. That’s the kind of face I lose myself in. For example, there’s a 25-year-old woman whose face I’m crazy about; her face looks younger and more innocent to me than the faces of 18-year-olds. My obsession is with that face. Age is secondary.

I realized this like this: I go onto sites that have photos of sex workers. I’m going to choose a companion for myself. If their faces are visible, I choose the one whose face I like. But if they’re hiding their faces, then I look at their ages and prefer the youngest ones. That’s how it is.

There was a high demand from the public; I was receiving hundreds of letters every day regarding this issue, so I wanted to clarify.

Not that anyone gives a damn, but since the diary is my diary, I felt like leaving a note for history.

I also watched Cem Yilmaz. I found him successful. However, misogyny stands out. I am a man-hating, “white knight” type of person. It’s not up to a man to criticize a woman’s plastic surgery. The one who invented that surgery is a man, and the one performing it is a man. If you’ve got the guts, make fun of them. The woman is also a victim of that industry. You should praise and exalt the woman when she gets old and wrinkled so that she won’t feel ugly and won’t resort to aesthetics.

But no, if you, like me, show interest in 18 and 25-year-old girls, then the woman takes the risk and goes under the knife.

And the joke about the butt is a whole different story. First of all, the fact that we don’t see our own butts is a good observation. I burst out laughing at that. Indeed, in my 37 years of life, I have seen my butt very few times. Maybe 3-5 times. And that was when I was a teenager exploring my body; I was curious about my butt, too—I won’t say I wasn’t.

However, just because a man sees his own butt three times in his life, you can’t criticize a woman’s Brazilian Butt Lift surgery. First of all, there’s a phenomenon called the Brazilian Butt. A woman’s butt is one of the most beautiful things in the world. You can’t just say, “I saw my butt once, women shouldn’t have plastic surgery on their butts.” This is a nonsense argument.

Well, there are successful surgeries, and there are unsuccessful ones. But you don’t make fun of that either. If you don’t like it, look ahead and go the hell home. Don’t make fun of people’s butts and bodies. Your own butt and belly have gone out of control. If you want to have a lot of fun, go in front of the mirror and have fun with yourself.

For my brothers asking if this approach “works” to pick up women, if I were going to pick them up like this, why would I pay sex workers? Women don’t like “white knights” anyway. Women prefer rough, boorish guys more. If they were to give it to losers like me, they’d do it out of pity, mercy, or compassion, which would happen maybe once or twice in a lifetime. And I’ve filled my limit in that area.

I have no request from any woman, except for sex workers. Not just women, it’s best to stay away from everyone, all people. Sex workers also spare an hour for $100, $150 and listen to your troubles in Tijuana. They’re happy, I’m happy. May it happen to you, too. We’ve reached our goal; may you have better ones.

Since I have plenty of time, I’ve opened up Kolpancino and I’m watching it now. Kudos to Safak Sezer. It’s funny, man. I think I like Sahin the Gallery Owner the most. He’s great. I’m laughing so much. Hahaha.