You know what that means, diary. War’s a-brewin. And something I’ll admit only to you? I seriously cannot wait. When the country goes to war, everything’s so intense. The suddenly delicious domestic food, the maybe-for-the-last-time fucking. Everyone so relieved to have a title and a specific job to do. The orders, diary, we go nuts for them. “Orders are orders,” and a shrug, “you know how it is.” Freedom from choice / is what you want, as the man said.

The world opens right up. Lots of travel, learning the fundamentals of any number of foreign languages, vehicle repair, cryptography, field dressing, orienteering — tons of useful knowledge that can be brought back and put to work in the inevitable post-war boom. It makes for well-rounded citizens, capable and ready, unflinching and serious.

So when o ditator sends his zeppelins over our territories, creepily quiet, I will let slip a quick salute before crying out trebuchets — now! Because he has brought us all to a higher plane of existence. Someplace clever and devout, someplace vital.