Garfield's Diary

January 10, 2005

I had that dream again. The one where I'm eating lasagna and look down at my fork and there's an eyeball staring up at me. I look into the eyeball and realize it's me and I'm looking at me. Glaring.

This morning Jon had a hooker over. He thinks that I don't realize it, but I know she's a hooker. I know a lot about Jon.

Like, for instance, he bathes in goat urine and likes to burn himself with matches.

Further, sometimes he beats hookers so badly that he has to kill them, and then the bastard feeds them to Odie or I.

I guess I don't mind the taste of human flesh, but it's screwing with my head. It's like I feel responsible.

All the hijinks I've played on Jon, for so many years now, are finally paying off. I not only got to him; I've ruined him. He's absolutely nuts now. He's flown over the dark side and found the hell that is everyman's soul.

For every cake or plate of lasagna I wrecked, back in the eighties, he's killed nine.

For every date I've ruined, he's had to strangle three hookers just to get an erection.

I don't know what to do. I started out with the best intentions. I really thought I was just being comical. Like, my shenanigans were a good laugh for him. And, in the beginning, they were. I think Jon and I got along well, and where I would ruin a lunch date for him, he would be able to laugh it off and get right back into the saddle for another week of adventure.

Not anymore.

Now, when I devour a freshly baked lasagna off the counter, I'm greeted with the dead eyes and a Full Metal Jacket grin of confused happiness.

The next thing I hear is Jon in the bathroom whipping himself with a cat o' nine tales until his blood has soaked the bath mat.

It's not only the guilt, but the desperation – Jon will be caught soon. There's no denying that.

Once you've killed as many people as he has, you get caught. All the greatest serial killers get caught, and Jon can't even keep from having his birthday cake ruined by a 25 year old cat.

25 years. You know, most cats are put down by now. So, you can see my worry.

When they put Jon away, behind bars, I'll be left on my own. And if you think they won't hesitate to euthanize a serial killer's cat, then I bet you have a plate of lasagna being devoured by your own pet.

Christ, I can hear him in there now. He'll murder this one, too. Her screams are too loud and too gargled for her to live much longer.

Well, it's time to leave. I can no longer stand the guilt, the murder, or the Mondays. I take all responsibility for whatever mental problems have driven Jon to human butchery.

I would like to also make a plea for Odie. He's an old and confused dog, and he's just seen too much. If you would like to help him, return him to the Earth – but not in our backyard. I don't want Odie's corpse anywhere near the virtual plantation of hooker corpses.

I love you all, and most of all, Jon.

Mondays no more,
Garfield