Zach VandeZande

Dear Diary

I’m not going to pretend that I wasn’t part of the problem. I still am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to take any of the blame in front of you, Dear Diary. There’s no one else left to talk to (like there ever was), so I’m just getting it all out before I burn it all down with the rest of this shit. There’s really no point; let’s just call it boredom on the gallows.

I really hate it most because there’s nothing much left to do and I’m too tired to sleep. It’s like I missed my opportunity to go to bed while I was breaking glass and ripping out pages of you and shitting in his autographed baseball glove, which was harder than I thought it would be, by the way.

I think I’ll take a shower and then go get some donuts because it really doesn’t matter anymore. Or maybe I’ll just shoot myself in the face and get it over with.

I think maybe it would have been better to be raped than to be ignored. I bet you think I’m being melodramatic. I hope he regrets it. Some of me hopes he forgets about me and does what he finally wants.

I walked in on him once, but you know that already so I won’t describe it again. I left before he noticed me and it was just another flushed opportunity. Why didn’t he ever want to fuck me?

Of course, now we know that I wasn’t his type. I’ll be right back, Diary, I’m going to do some more redecorating.



With the price of gas going up all the time he better know that at least I spared no expense. More than he can say, am I right?

Am I right?

I wonder if I’m going to get prison or a restraining order. I guess it depends on how far I end up going. I guess it depends on how many matches I have in my purse.

Dear Diary I kind of hope you burn up in the fire. I could say it was cleansing. I could say that the flames ate up all the last year and a half of my life, and now all I’ve got left is good times.

Of course, it’s not like I ever had good times. You know that because you sat on the shelf next to the other diaries, and you must have talked when I was away.

Did your brothers and sisters tell you how we dated in high school? How Brad and I would go to all the right parties and do all the right things and drink all the right drinks and do all the right drugs?

Did they tell you how he made varsity and got that full scholarship, and how he went away for a few years while I went to the community college? Did they tell you that during all that time I stayed faithful and waited for him to come home? Did they tell you how happy I was when he hurt his back and dropped out?

Better yet, did they tell you how his lips were always so cold when we kissed? How he would rest his hand on my breast like it was just barely repulsive and never squeeze?

We’ve all got our little secrets. Mine is I want him to walk in the door, see the mess I’ve made, and just beat the shit out of me until I’m a bloody mess left on the floor. And then he can hold me all night and apologize through anguished breaths and it will be something like love.

Brad’s secret is another story entirely.



I’m back. I had to get up and throw a chair through some plaster. I’m getting a bit loud. The neighbors may just call the cops. Every moment I linger and write in you, Diary, is another moment that might turn this arson into attempted arson. A cry for help instead of a grand exit.

Here’s a transcript of the message on the machine:

Hey Brad, it’s your Pop (stupid Minnesota fuckers). Just calling to check in on you guys, see if there was any good news. I’m glad we got a chance to talk.

Yeah here’s some good news, Pop. Your son is about to lose all his possessions and your grandbaby is not really your grandbaby. Also, your house smells like tobacco and you’re a racist and a bigot even though you say you’re not.

Oh, and I’m half Mexican. Half breed. Half Spic. That part will make you hit the fucking roof, I’m sure.

I’m going to go throw the football around for awhile. The one signed by the whole high school team. Why not letter in two sports, Brad?

Why not?



I threw it around for a bit and now it’s in the microwave cooking. I closed the kitchen door because it smells pretty terrible. The gasoline fumes aren’t helping.

It really is Pop’s fault in the end, but at some point a man has to stand up and take the blame for his own actions. Or inactions.

Someone has to get their house burned down.

Don’t worry, Dear Diary, despite what I said you’re going to make it just fine. I bought this fireproof safe just so you got safe passage to the New World. Life after the lies that we never dared tell each other.

I’m not sleeping around. I’m not pregnant. These were mine.

I’m not masturbating after you leave for work every day. I have a bad back from playing football and baseball so we can’t have sex tonight. I don’t go to gay hangouts and gay chatrooms and gay porn sites and gay night clubs and to meet strange gay men in hourly hotel rooms.

His, obviously.

Instead of telling these lies there were just awkward and chilled silences. There was watching TV all night, or the scrape of forks against the plates. You’re the only one I ever lied to, Diary.

I promise.

If he would have slept with me, fucked me, just once, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. If he wouldn’t have dressed it up as religion or morals or good character, maybe we could have been good friends.

Instead he gave me the guilt trip that I like to call The Implied Prostitute. Because I wanted him to kiss me hard. To throw me down over the couch or the kitchen table. To show me that I was a living thing! I’ve got to throw more shit, be right back.



It’s quite exhilarating to throw light bulbs and beer bottles and the occasional coffee table. You should try it some time. I feel kind of bad about the whole thing, but I’m forcing Brad’s hand, and he will thank me for it. There’s revenge in there, too, Diary, but I am sort of doing this to help him.

It’s kind of a shame I had to use all my vacation time following him around with a digital camera. I could use a week in Tahiti. Shit, I might as well take one. I was leaving town anyway. But I guess I can’t actually say where I’m going to you, Diary, because you will just blab it all to the police in the morning.

Yes, Tahiti would be nice.

I’m going to open up the fireproof safe now and put some things in it, and then I think I’ll play with the matches and try to talk myself into it.

Ok so the pregnancy test is in there. A copy of the letter I sent to Pop about his son’s secrets (photos included) so there won’t be any confusion. All of the account statements for the secret bank account that wasn’t very secret. It must be hard to lead a double life.

Or Brad is just stupid. Maybe he wanted to get caught, but that seems rather uncreative.

He could have burned down the house or something.

Anyway there’s only two more things to put in there, Dear Diary, and then I’m done. One of them is you.



I feel like I should say more. Something about the whole thing feels unfinished. I’d better just do it before I lose my nerve.



OK so I dropped the match like in the movies and TV shows and it just went out… This is going to take some concentrated effort.



Diary! The house is on fire! It’s so hot in here, ungodly hot! I wanted to write the last of it when there was no turning back. Right now I’m going to put the eight hundred dollar engagement ring (way to leave the receipt out, ass!) between these pages, right here under these last words that I’m ever going to write in you. I’m going to miss you, Diary, you’ve been a good friend when I didn’t have any. Hopefully Brad doesn’t treat you as badly as he treated me…

Brad, here’s your answer: