#3 "Diary of a Nice Guy" by Kip Hayes

June 08 – 8:07pm


Welcome to my mind, brave intellectual! Part of me is afraid I’ve started writing this too soon, because I’ve only just begun the thing that I’ll be remembered for. But I figure that the earlier I start on this log the better. Elliot Rodger’s manifesto is way too high-strung—probably because he started working on his too close to his “Day of Retribution.” And since I want to distance myself from that Supreme Incel as much as possible (though the hivemind that is the Internet will no doubt lump us together), I want to give myself the luxury of time to make sure I’m saying everything I want to say, exactly as I intend for it to be known after my death. Unlike many others that have come before me, I don’t want or need retribution. What I’m after is a good time. I don’t want anyone thinking I raped these women or cajoled them into having sex with me. Remember this, Internet: I won them with my charms, which I cultivated all by myself through determination and self-confidence. If you could see the texts on my phone and the chatlogs in the app I use to find these women—if you could be a fly on the wall when I’m with them, there would be no doubt in your mind that I respect women more than anything else on this earth. Nor do I want anyone thinking I killed these women as an act of revenge or as some half-assed “message” to women in general. Though it is women that have inspired me to go on this grand tour of the continental U.S., not out of hatred but genuine love. Like Casanova, I have always loved women. But—until recently—they most definitely have not loved me. That’s all changed now. I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, I’ve got to be going for now. Date tonight.


June 09 – 1:13am


She’s asleep beside me right now.


Erin Elizabeth Portsmouth. D.O.B. April 3, 1998. License expires September 9, 2023. 3840 Birdsong Way. Guess she lives at home.


I’ll take her back to her car in the morning. No rush.


June 09 – 11:15am


I grew up very, very fat. And for years, I’d convinced myself my mother was exaggerating when she’d say things like “No one wants to date a fat slob.” But by the time middle school came around and I got zero dates, I started to reconsider all that she’d told me over the years. It was weird, because I do remember her telling me (years and years ago) that I was “so handsome.” But, of course, that was also before I started packing on the pounds.


By the time high school rolled around, I was close to 300lbs. I didn’t experiment with girls, but I did manage to experiment with alcohol, which both my parents had lying around their houses (my parents divorced when I was very young). My dad also gave me a very decent allowance, which I used to get ahold of cocaine by senior year and MDMA by freshman year at junior college (dad wouldn’t pay for anything else until I declared a major).


During all this time, my thoughts got very dark. I’d daydream about killing beautiful people I knew. Girls who rejected me. Guys who succeeded where I’d failed. I’d give them horrible, twisted deaths, and I’d write them down in this ratty old notebook I called my shitlist. Real sick crap. I burned the thing just before I went out on the road, but even now I’m still a little embarrassed to write about it.


Of course, the drugs didn’t help. I’d get faded, hole up in my room, fantasize about killing some nine-out-of-ten, then masturbate and go to sleep. Repeat every weekend for about six years, stirring every so often to prevent scorching.


It was also the drugs, of all things, that helped me turn my life around. My stepmother bought me a bike and suggested I take it riding in the evenings when it was cool. So I was biking the streets late one night, high off my ass, and I got hit by a semitruck. The truck drove off, but fortunately some lady driver saw the whole thing, called 911, and helped identify the driver by taking note of his tag and the brand name emblazoned on the side of his trailer. I got sixty-thousand bucks in the settlement.


This was the real pivot-point in my life. One condition of the settlement was that I had to go to rehab, since the hospital checked my blood and found out I was loaded at the time of the incident (though, because the cops determined I had the right of way at the time, I couldn’t really be faulted for anything). And it was in rehab that I decided to stop eating away my boredom. “Some say you’re digging your grave with a fork,” my therapist told me. She had a way of putting things that made sense. She’s also the one who turned me on to feminism.


Here’s a message to the men who may end up reading this: is there something you just hate about women? Like they’re “too theatrical”? They don’t want to speak their minds until it’s too late to fix something? Consider: this is societal conditioning. Doesn’t mean you can’t be irritated by it. Just think about. Empathize. Empathy is what the world desperately needs more of. I cannot stress this enough.


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Erin just texted. Getting Korean BBQ at 7. Never had that before.