Diary of a Loser

The reformation

The time when I fucked the male strangers I happened to meet in some back alleys (I did this out of loneliness), and lived on welfare – that time has passed. Now I'm a full-fledged member of an American society, a working individual, a proletarian – I even try to pay taxes. And I stopped being a fag a long time ago.

Ah, the Jewish girls, the Jewish girls…

Energetic and curious, with luxuriant hair, tender and Romantic in the Oriental manner, they leave their parents' houses early. They bravely go into the world armed with diaphragms, contraceptive pills, and books on good nutrition. Enthusiastic, nosey, their brown eyes aglitter, they're first in any movement, be it women's lib, socialism, or terrorism.

They're first to run and get a new book by a celebrity poet, and you'll meet their swooning eyes if you look into a hall during a concert of any rock group or classical music performance. They study ballet and photography; they're independent and persistent. Though often truly lecherous and very sexy, they can restrain themselves for the sake of duty and family. One can find rare and refined flowers among them – these become courtesans and patrons of arts.

No matter how hard they try to get rid of the Jewish girls through the Auschwitzes and other powerful means, they keep running on the streets of the world's most cosmopolitan cities; their arms up, holding on to the bus handrail, they keep staring mistily at you; they keep giving to you – the Slavic and other nations' youth – their bodies.

An opera was performed. I walked in.

The electric chair – it's unpleasant and painful, and you get butterflies in your stomach as though at school before exams but it doesn't last. It's too bad though they don't show this on TV, and that the reporters don't get to ask questions before the departure to the other world, and that it's too clean and probably too bright from the artificial light.

It's easy to imagine one's own death in that chair-my crying mother (God forbid) brought over from Moscow in 1990, one of my wives (whichever one happens to be there). They shave the back of my head, give me the stinking prison shirt (I wonder if they wash them, or maybe the rich America gives a new shirt each time?). It's shit – death in the electric chair.

It's way better on the battlefield – you plop into the redolent grass and you often have time to say something graceful to your friend and sometimes you even find time to caress your girlfriend's face.