As you read this, I may already be dead.
This is likely the final entry in my survival journal. I write with fingers cramping, sight wavering, strength failing.
This is my message in a bottle, a desperate attempt to contact the civilized world. You see, I am stranded, lost — not on a desert island or the African wild, but in a featureless wasteland all the same. I call it Binghamton.
I fear not the fang or claw of a lion or puma but, instead, the toothless hobo and manicured sorority girl.
The native population is aggressive, yes, but not in a spear-throwing way. They are armed to the teeth, not with sharpened sticks, but with bitterness that is beyond physical defense.
I need not hunt the swift monkey or question the palatability of roots and berries, yet food is always scarce. I’ve gotten by so far, but the decent places close early and Pepe’s is only edible when drunk.
I live off campus. This is my story.
I washed ashore nigh a fortnight past. No food, no supplies, my only companions: my trusty switchblade and a burning will to survive.
Sure, my entire family made the drive to Binghamton to help me get settled, the van stuffed to the brim with my wardrobe, a generous helping of groceries (“All your favorites, sweetie!”) and a gushing wave of love and support, but I had to wait in Binghamton alone for two days before their arrival. Two full days. And my situation would only worsen.
My family would leave Binghamton later that day. I found myself alone. I had only the entirety of my worldly possessions, a filled pantry, a roommate, wireless Internet, multiple game consoles and air conditioning.
Still, I managed to survive.
The weeks following my abandonment are a blur of hateful images and animalistic instincts to my mind. To attempt to sift through my broken memories is an act of masochism, though I cannot escape them in sleep.
I managed to keep a journal, of which this entry is the last. In it is contained a tale of survival, of man at his limit, a stirring tribute to the human spirit. Sadly, much of it has been, like me, lost forever. It seems that in one of my hunger-induced fits I boiled my journal in a stew. Included are the remaining excerpts, so that others can learn from my story.
Aug. 30 (Evening): Roommate says no more fires in the bathroom. How else do I keep bears away?
Aug. 31 (Morning): First day of school. Thrown out of first class. Apparently BU is a spear-free campus.
Sept. 2 (Mid-day): Note to self — never trust a gypsy with your Frisbee.
Sept. 3 (Morning): Woke up in alley, holding raw onion and cutting board. Ate the cutting board.
Sept. 5 (Evening): WILSON! WILSON! WILLLLSOOOON!!!
Sept. 7 (Night): Ran out of pasta to grill, pigeons are too fast. Starving. Near death.
Sept. 12 (Morning): Befriended a super-intelligent cyber-monkey. He will lead me to safety.
That is all.
As I lie dying, I find myself wondering what I hope to accomplish with this entry. Chimpzor is waiting. I have little time. Just get the hell out. Don’t come back for me.