Why did I make this?

I'm starting to ask myself that question. I mean I really am. I don't really think people will actually want to read my blog—well actually I'm pretty sure they won't. Nobody really reads anything that anyone writes anyhow. All that those phony intellectuals do is analyze. They know that someone wrote something, but they all have to ask each other why. What it means. That stuff kills me. It really does.

I guess one of the reasons that I'm writing this is that I don't really have anyone to talk to, after all. I mean, I just ran away from Pencey, for God's sake. I can't give my parents a buzz, I can't call my prostitute of a brother D.B., and I sure as hell can't ring up Jane.

And really, there isn't even a phone booth in this goddam place. Right now I'm in the station waiting for a train. I have my red hunting cap on and everything. I probably look pretty miserable, though. I really do. I mean, with my bloody nose and everything, people must be hoping they don't have to talk to me. I would want to talk with me, to tell you the truth, even with a bloody nose. I find people like me interesting. I really do. And I don't usually find people that interesting.