From my Outbox: Dear Diary (Crusoe)

Day three hundred and ninety six, Godforsaken island.

I still haven’t got my shack up to par since the storm two days ago. I haven’t found anything to replace my wire that was caught by the wind. It’s hard to come across any wire on a deserted island.
I will probably have to walk to the well now. But that’s ok. There’s not that much to do when you’re completely alone on an uncharted island, millions of miles from the nearest pub.
When I think about it, it wouldn’t make much of a difference if I fell into the well either.

Friday has not returned yet. He has been gone for three months.
Has he been eaten by the wild men on the East side? I don’t know. Some late nights I think I can hear him coming, panting from the descend, but it is always just a boar or a cuckatoo bird trying to crack open my fruit supplies. God damn cuckatoos.
Some evenings I hardly think Friday was here at all. Am I here at all? If I’m not, why can’t I be where I am? And why am I thinking that I am here?
But I know it’s not a dream. I have never dreamed of slimy blood sucking mosquitos the size of eyeballs before, not ever. So I must really be here.

Alas, having established my existence, I continued to look for wire. I came to an opening in the Slimy Tree forest, and lo and behold! thought I had found some wire. It was slimy, like everything else on this godforsaken island, and it turned out to be a snake sleeping in the sun. I dropped it when it snapped for my hand, and ran like a guinea pig from Al Capone’s men in the 1930’s. That is, really fast.
After half an hour my eyes were so covered in slime from the trees that I couldn’t see anything. I stumbled over something, was it Friday? No. It was just a root. I flew forward with the speed of an illegal immigrant in the post office queue, hit something Real Hard, and scratched up my right knee.
It has been four hours and I still walk like a pirate with bad a bad case of hemorrhoids.

I sat down to look at the sea.
Staring straight into the horizon filled my heart with a longing. For booze and women, for the Holy Church, for civilization and casinos. Then, all of a sudden, I caught a glimpse of something glimmering in the water. Could it really be wire? I ran, or fell, down to the beach, tore my clothes off and went swimming. It had appeared inside the coral reef, so I was pretty safe from sharks. Until I remembered the storm two days ago, which would probably bring waves going over the reef, with sharks innit. I sighed, coughed, spit out the water, and catched my breath.
I decided to look for the wire anyhow. I had only seen three slimy sharks within the reef during my entire stay. When I got to where I’d spotted it to be, I saw it had drifted closer to the shore, and I had to swim all the way back again. I remembered not to sigh, and went straight for it.
It was all slimy, to my great surprise, but I got hold of it and swam for the beach. When I was twenty arms length away, the wire turned towards me and bit me. ’twas a sea snake, of course.
I let it go and it sank into the water. My hand stung a little and I felt totally overcome with fatigue. I paddled on the back for a little while. That’s when I heard the two sharks racing for me, and I had to really make an effort to get to the shallow waters.

Then to top it off; another grief.
After a day of searching for steel wire – in a jungle – I entered the cantina in low spirit. The outlook was grim. In four days I would be here for four hundred days. Friday was gone, and I had spent two days searching for wire. In a jungle!
I picked up a couple of eggs and some caviar, for the three hundred and ninety sixth time. There was room next to some co-workers, and I idly flipped through the newspaper lying there. There was nothing new, of course. Preparing to get back to work, to find some wire, I remembered that it was Friday.
Not the guy, but the day.
That meant it would be waffles. I love waffles. An entire day of searching for wire would seem like a game of cricket on a pacific cruise, if I could only savour the heavenly harmony of divine substance and taste that waffles are, if only for a few minutes.
Waffles. The only thing not slimy on this island. Oh, Holy joy! They are soft and warm like a lady’s skin. Friendly, teasing, and well-placed in your belly. My spirit rised. I looked around for them, wetting my lips, thinking about how I would coat them in glistening, red strawberry jam. My mouth was running in water.

Dear diary,
God was laughing at me.
There was not a single one left.

Robinson Crusoe

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