I hate this place. Hate it.

I’d rather be out in the city or in the countryside with my pencils and paper and brushes. The world is a beautiful place, and I can see what it offers and capture it forever in my art. If I have to be in school at all, why can’t it be art school? Something that would really help.

Father chose this school for me. Because he is a civil servant, he thinks that I should become one too. You know what civil servants do? They sit all day long in dusty old offices with dusty old furniture and tiny airless windows that are so dirty that it surprises you that they let in any light at all. They take papers off one pile, scribble notes on them, and put them into another pile. Why would anyone want to do that for a living? Father enjoys that kind of job? Well, fuck him. I won’t do it.

I can’t very well be a civil servant if I don’t pass my courses, can I? The world waits for me and I need to carve my own path through it.

I hate Father. I hate that I am Alois Hitler’s son.