The story of my goddamn life isn't really important, so let's skip it. I was born, I grew up, and sooner or later, I'm going to die; let's leave it at that. I'm no Charles Dickens, and this is no goddamn David Copperfield. I'm just writing this piece of crap because of my sister; she's the only one clamoring for it. Not that I hate her for it; it's just one of her annoying habits. She's a good kid, a really good kid. But you already know about that, so let's see what I can write about. My life is all right; it could be better, it could be worse. I'm dating this ditzy gal from my work; she's okay, if you know what I mean. She's got a great hourglass figure and a fantastically smooth singing voice. She's a redhead, and she's got a pretty good temper. I mean, she'll yell at ya if you bug her too much, but she's patient for the most part. My folks think that Shirley (the broad I'm dating) is great, but my sister thinks she's too much of a moron for me; personally, I'd have to agree with old Phoebe. She's almost always right when it comes to figuring out people.
What can I tell you about Phoebe? Well, for one thing, she wants to be a journalist for the New York Times. I tried to tell her that's a junk job and that only liars write for that trash, but she just looked at me sort of coolly, and she said, "Oh really?" I dropped the subject after that; if she doesn't want to listen to reason, I can't make her. Some women can really make you feel like crud sometimes, you know, with certain looks and words. But I still think old Phoebe's swell. She's a good kid. She's got this boyfriend named Harold; he's an okay guy, but he's kind of slow. It takes him a while to get a joke, and when he finally gets the damn joke, he does this slow laugh like, "A-hah. A-hah." It's enough to drive me insane, but it's endearing to Phoebe. Hey, if she likes him, there's got to be something good about him.
D.B. finally got his senses back and left Hollywood; he said that rubbing elbows with all the big-time stars and producers just wasn't his "cup of tea". I say that he got sick and tired of whoring himself out and couldn't stand all those phonies. Anyway, he got hitched to this English broad, you know, the one from the movie he wrote. He says she's a great gal to have all kinds of fun with, but I don't know; she seems aloof or something all the damn time. She's pregnant with twins, and D.B. couldn't be happier. Well, hoorah for them; I hope it works out, I really do. D.B. is writing western novels now, and they're good, but not quite as good as his old short stories were. But I'm sure his books will get better. I told him that his stories weren't as good, and he just shrugged me off. Some people can't take criticism very well, I swear. Not that I can take criticism well, but I'm just saying some people can't take a few well-meaning comments to heart, you know.
I've been done with those psychiatrist visits for over five years now, and I have to tell ya, I developed a "love-hate relationship" with the shrink. I mean, we had a nice time sometimes; we'd go to the horse races and bet on the ponies from time to time. It was nice, you know, just sitting there, taking a long drag from a cigarette, talking about everything under the sun. But sometimes, he just ticked me off. He'd start flapping his gums about my "problems", and how Allie's death wasn't my fault. Well damn; I didn't need him telling me it wasn't my fault. I know Allie died from leukemia, and I know that I didn't cause the leukemia to form or anything. It just got annoying from time to time. But the psychiatrist wouldn't let up at times, and told me that "I needed to apply myself more" and that "I needed to realize my potential". What a load of horse manure. Anyway, he was a good guy regardless.
Jane Gallagher is doing great in her marriage to Stradlater. You know, the bastard who had a date with her before I left Pencey Prep. Can you believe it? They actually got hitched; I can't believe it happened. I mean, I thought Stradlater would fool around with other broads, but apparently he's still in love with her. They even have a two-year old son; the kid's name is John, and he's really a bright kid, you know. Jane invited me to their wedding four years back, and Jane and I have been in contact ever since. Stradlater, being the moronic bastard he is, can't even remember me; he says he does, but you can tell when those athletic bastards are lying. Anyway, it's nice talking to Jane every Sunday when she comes over to my folks' house for tea. Jane's mother finally got rid of that chain-smoking creep, and she's settled in Jane's mansion. Yep, they have a mansion. Stradlater decided to go into law and open up his own firm. Who knew he had the brains? Jane went and became a writer of children's books, and she reads them to her son every night. Jane's a swell gal, and she takes good care of her family; she really does, you know. She said when she was getting married that I was like a brother to her more than anything, and that she was glad to know me and all; well, I almost cried she looked so honest. She said that if I needed anything – anything at all, that I could come to her. I just said thanks and that I would be there for her too. Boy, I can be a real jerk sometimes; she said that I could come to her with any problem, and I said thanks. I swear I'm crazy at times. I can be a real nut, you know.
Ackley (you know, the pimply, greasy bastard) actually got married to this TV ad actress. Yeah, she's a real looker; she's blonde, five foot five, and she's got the most incredible legs you ever saw. She's really energetic and all, but quite dumb. I'd guess she'd have to be if she's Ackley's girl. Ackley finally got rid of his pimples, but he's still the same bastard; always complaining about how good I've got it and how good Stradlater's got it. It's enough to make anyone nauseous. Ackley's an accountant, and he's making pretty good money from it, but he still complains. He's okay in some ways though; he takes care of my taxes for free. But he's still no Superman or anything. He's still the biggest whiner I've ever seen.
Shirley (the gal I'm going out with) keeps harping on me about marriage. I keep saying to her, "So, you want to be even more miserable?" That only infuriates her though; we have all kinds of battles royale over this moronic subject. But she won't quit; I'm getting sick and tired of Shirley and whenever she starts yapping at me, I just walk out the door and go to Joe's bar. I don't need her giving me goddamned lip-service about "our union being sanctified through a proper marriage." I said one time that if she wanted to get married so badly, why don't we stop by City Hall? Oh boy, did she ever blow up at me; she wouldn't speak to me for a few days afterwards. I had to beg on my knees; she said that there was no way in hell she was going to be married anywhere but a church. I never brought up marriage again.
I'm doing all right though. I got a crumby job as a newspaper editor for the New York Times. God, I hate every single one of those phonies there. The chief editor, Harris, keeps nagging me to come to one of their crumby Christmas parties. I say that I have to go across the country for Christmas each year; hey, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. My life's okay though; it's nice having D.B. back, even though he's not as good of a writer as he was. It's nice having Phoebe being pleased to see me every time I pick her up from high school. It's a tolerable life and all, and I like being myself. I mean, there are aspects of my life I don't like, but it's all right in the end.