Well, I suppose you want to know all about the madcap stuff that's happened to me in the last few years. Trust me, there's plenty. I know how I said before that I wasn't going to tell any more of my goddam story. I know how I said that I just didn't feel like it anymore. But goddammit, I'm not even going to be here anymore tomorrow. I'll finally be out of this crumby place, and all I can say for sure is that I'm definitely not coming back. But I've got to tell somebody, or else nobody'll ever know. I guess these words are all I've got.
Well, first things first, I guess. I should get this out of the way. I have a goddam confession to make. I'm a flit. I guess the proper term they're using these days is homosexual. But I hate those goddam phonies who go and try to use big words to make themselves sound more professional, goddammit. I've met a lot of those phonies. It kills me, it really does. But I'm a flit. Holden the flit. Holden Caulfield the goddam flit. Has a nice ring to it. They should write that on my goddam grave. My parents would have a lot more than two hemorrhages apiece if I ever told them this. Oh boy. It'll be a pretty nasty goddam shock for them if they ever find this goddam note. Nobody knows my goddam secret, except for old Phoebe. But old Phoebe always knew I wasn't normal. I always knew, too. I was different somehow. I used to have this sort of nagging feeling in the back of my head. Always. Like there was some goddam part of me that didn't fit somehow. Or some goddam part of me that I just couldn't find. I used to just try and push that goddam feeling away. But when I got to thinking about it, whenever I was out with a girl… something just seemed wrong. Wrong. I can't really describe it, goddammit. I was reading over all the crap I wrote about what happened to me after I got chucked out of Pencey all those years ago. And that was when I realized. That night back with old Sunny at the goddam Edmont Hotel… it just seemed wrong somehow. It didn't fit. I remember how I said I was supposed to feel pretty sexy after old Sunny took off her goddam green dress in that goddam hotel room. But if you really want to know the truth, I was scared. Dead scared. The entire situation felt wrong to me. That little nagging feeling in the back of my head kind of just got stronger and stronger. And the closer old Sunny got to me, the more goddam scared I felt. And I got to thinking about that little tiff I had with old Stradlater back at crumby old Pencey. I don't know why, but I sort of started to imagine old Stradlater in Sunny's place, pulling my goddam hound's-tooth jacket over his head and all. For some reason, that seemed to fit better. I don't even know. And the more I thought about, the more I realized that I was a flit, I had to be. I already told you all about what a sexy bastard old Stradlater was. It's so hard for me to even write these goddam words, goddammit. But it feels good to get this off my goddam chest. At least this goddam note proves I wasn't completely clueless about who I really was.
But I haven't got the heart to tell everyone I'm a flit. I'm sick of this goddam world, so goddam sick of it. It's really depressing. Because it's like the more you think about it, the more goddam sick you get. It's like a goddam disease or something. At least for me, anyway. Sometimes I don't know how other people can even stand it. I've been stuck in this crumby place for thirty-five goddam years. And I don't mean goddam New York. I'm talking about the whole goddam world. I mean, with the prejudice and all. If I told everyone I was a flit, I'd probably be ostracized from goddam society. Ostracized. Old Spencer used that word once to describe me back at Pencey. Now that I think about it, not much's changed from when I was back at that crumby place. I wonder what old Spencer would say if he knew what I was about to do. He would probably shun me, too. Society's full of such goddam phonies. They'd probably look down on me for being a goddam flit. I know they'd look down on me, the bastards. Even more than they do already. Like it's any fault of mine I turned out the way I did. And I got to thinking. Thinking about the "Fuck you" engraved in the goddam bathroom stall at old Phoebe's primary school. I got to thinking, and I started to realize how many "Fuck you"s society sends out every goddam day. You're a flit? "Fuck you." You're a colored bastard? "Fuck you." You have a big nose or crooked teeth or whatever? You're not normal. You're not goddam good enough. "Fuck you." Well, I'm done with that. I'm done with a world that can't even recognize you and accept you for who you are, goddammit. I guess in case you haven't realized yet… this is a goddam suicide note. Like I said before, I'm not even going to be here tomorrow, and boy am I glad I won't. This world really was a crumby place. But before I go, I do have a message to give out to anyone reading this, or just to the goddam world in general.
"Fuck you."
Sincerely,
Holden Caulfield