Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Ryan Dunn (celeb)
You're fucking crazy, have I told you that lately? I don't know if I have, but if I have recently, I probably didn't mean it very seriously because recently for us would be like...a couple months ago. I didn't hate you so hard then. But that's because I didn't really think this stupid MTV shit was really gonna go through. How much are they paying you again? Oh yeah. Too fucking much. To be a retard on national television. It's not really like you need the money, huh? It's like you need the coverage. The proof that you're actually going through with this so everyone can see that you, Bam Margera, are marrying a chick. A nice chick. A hot chick. A chick who likes you for whatever goddamn fucking reason. A chick who's gonna stick by you, even when you're fucking someone else, be it...whoever it be. Is that what we're gonna glean from this? Fuck, and you don't even know why I don't want to be involved. Because you're stupid.

I just don't feel like playing along anymore. Can't figure out why anyone else does. Especially can't figure out why you do. Is it just...what? Fucking comfortable now? You're so used to it, you don't know that there's any other way to be? I don't know why you think it matters so much, to keep all this shit up. It's not like anyone cares. It's not like it really matters. No one, in twenty years - no, make that ten years. Maybe even five, is gonna give a shit that you got married, much less to Missy. You coulda married Jenn. You coulda married Jessica fucking Simpson, if you really wanted to. It's not gonna make some kind of impact. You would've gotten press for maybe two minutes before someone else did something better, worse, or more important. You're not important. You don't matter. Not to the whole world. Not to the people that are gonna be watching your ridiculous show. Who, by the way, are frat boys who won't remember it in the morning and twelve-year-old girls who are writing death threats, in their diarys, to your..."wife". They don't really care about you. They just don't have anything better to do. Coincidentally, I don't have anything better to do, either. But even when I do, which we all know is fucking never, I still care.

So if this show is supposed to be directed to people you think care about wtf you do, then do something for me. Stop it. If not for me, then...fuck, I don't know. Your mom, maybe. Haven't seen her since I saw you last, but there used to be a time when I'd see her every fucking day of my life. I know, Bam, I fucking know that she doesn't want it to happen like this. Come on. She's your mother. Whose mother wants them to get fucking hitched for MTV? No one wants to make this kind of circus out of something that's supposed to be the most important day of your life, whatever that should mean. You know what she does want? For you to be happy. That's all she's ever wanted. And you're not. Or at least, you're not gonna be, once this is all said and done. She knows it. I know it. Fucking everybody knows it. So I don't care if you stop it, just for me. Just to come back and be with me. Dude, just cut it out for yourself.

No. No, hang on a sec. You should stop it for you, but you should stop it for me, too. You should cut the shit and come back to me. Honest to God, I'm that fucking selfish. But I don't get it, I just don't get it. What went wrong??? It's not even been a year. It's not even been a year, but it was almost perfect again. (WTF is perfect? I don't know, it's never been that.) But now you're doing this and I'll tell ya, I'm fucking pissed. I came back for us, for you. Even though I thought you'd pushed me to the end of my fucking rope, I came back and it was actually okay again. I'd like you to name one other person who has loved you, constantly and unconditionally, for ten years straight. But you can't. Because I don't think anyone else could even stand you for that long, much less love you through all that you've done. All who you've done.

Is Ville pissed? Is he talking to you? Fuckin'...if you didn't make me have to hate him...he's a good guy, you know? I'd like that guy a helluva lot more if it weren't for you. Maybe I should call him up. Maybe I should start letting him fuck me. HA HA.

But you know...that's just the fucking tragedy of it all. I'm not gonna go fuck anybody. I'm not even gonna get married in retaliation. I'm just gonna keep doing what I'm doing. (Nothing.) Maybe I'll go back to California. Worked out mostly well the first time around. It was pretty nice, out there. Pretty warm, too. I could probably shed my winter coat o' fur, even now. I don't know, I'll have to think about it. 'Cuz I ain't staying here. If I leave, it's kinda like I'm the one leaving you, you know. Because you never say, "Dude, we're fucking over." Sometimes I wish you'd say "I think we should see other people," though, because that would be fucking hilarious. But I'm not gonna see other people. I can't see other people. I can't fucking see. Anyone. But goddamn you. Sonnaffabitch. I like feeling like the one to put a final cap on it, though, even if we never do. I like thinking that I don't stick around long past the general last drop of hope. If I leave, I can tell myself I left before it got to its lowest low point. Or that I left because, finally, I just wasn't gonna take it anymore. Really, I just don't know what else to do, at that point. I don't know how else to tell you that I'm still trying to stick around and hope something's gonna change. Because when I do, you blow me the fuck off.

So, October to November, now to fucking March. Ha. Ha ha ha ha. Ha. Ha. Wow. Fuckin' shithead.

Wait, but seriously. ...I don't know what for. Jeeeesus Christ. I just. You know, I wish I coulda been good enough. Any kind of enough. Just enough. Enough for you. But I never have been, so I guess I don't know why the hell I would be now.