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Lost is an amazing show: The perfect storm of mystery and intrigue, balanced with both characterization and plot... probably. They haven't actually explained everything yet, so judgment on quality of plot must be withheld until we're sure it's not all going to end as Jack's fever-dream or something. But with so many enigmas and so much drama every single day, even the most fantastic events will eventually become routine. And coming into season six, we may well be approaching that point. I mean, there are only so many times you can drive a landmass through time before that shit just becomes the 9-5.



Dear Diary, Today I wore my shirt bunched up around my stomach with a single smear of dirt on my otherwise immaculate face. I think it makes me look savage, but not ugly savage; a pretty savage. Like a wild, sexy horse. I practiced ‘cavorting in the surf,’ for two hours this morning, and I really think I have it nailed. As the sun fell behind me--its rays outlining my soft body in an aura of sparkling light and water--I think I actually felt everything go into slow motion. I would feel like such a pretty, pretty princess if a poor diet and prolonged malnutrition didn’t have me shitting liquid into a ditch every two hours.



What’s up, Journal? Everybody here is so into their personal drama. It’s pretty weird, I guess. There’s no room for a fat guy in all that stuff, though. Oh no, the fat guy can’t be involved in any romantic love triangles; he’d just drag everything down, right? It’d be like, an isosceles love triangle if you put fatty on one end. Speaking of, why have I even gained weight here? Between nebulous monsters and the Others, I run literally eight miles a day and there is nothing to eat here but fish and fruit. I’ve been living like a Californian trophy wife for four years now, dude, and I still look like that guy from Blues Traveler. It’s not fair. If Sawyer’s gonna keep calling me "Tubbs and Crocket," you’d think somebody’d hook a dude up with some real food. Today I got so desperate that I made a makeshift burrito out of leaves and this dead bird I found. It almost tasted like Taco Bell. I cried for an hour and a half.
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Another Stunning Entry in Jack’s Personal Journal of Extreme Significance, I’m beginning to worry about morale here on the island. At first, everybody was really all about our emotional connections with each other and banding together, but now it just feels like they’re phoning it in. I tried talking to Sawyer about our conflicting feelings for Kate, but he told me that he couldn’t “give a flying fuck at the moon,” about my feelings and that I should get back to him when I “know what that damn smoke monster is.” I tried telling him that the so-called "smoke monster" is really a metaphor for our inner darkness clouding our ability to love, but he just punched me in the chest until I fell unconscious. Doesn’t anybody care about my emotions anymore? I’m not sure if I liked my daddy or not! THIS IS IMPORTANT.



The Chronicles of John Locke, The island hasn’t spoken to me in weeks now. I begin to worry about our psychic connection. How solid can our relationship really be, if it is so easily shaken? A guy forgets to turn a wheel one god damn time and then it’s the silent treatment for a month. I’m pretty hard up. I’ve started really noticing that little island off the coast that the Others' facilities were on. It seems like it’s really been working on its appearance lately. Sometimes I look at that pretty little island out there, sitting all perky and tight on the shifting sea, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from canoeing out there and giving it a good hard psychic reaming. That little bitch. You know she wants it. Jesus, commitment is hard.
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Sawyer’s Diary of Feelings and Crap, I’m runnin’ outta nicknames. For the last month I’ve just been calling everybody "homo." Don’t think nobody’s finding it all that endearing anymore. Thought I’d step up my game last week and try something new, but I drew a complete blank and ended up calling Claire’s ghost “chucklenuts.” I think that was from a Jerky Boys CD. My hair has officially gone from ‘sexy, primal mane’ to ‘unattractive, vegan hippy nest.’ Nobody cares how troubled you are when you smell like sweat and old fruit.



So. Journal. Hey. Why doesn’t anybody pay attention to me? I see dead people like I’m the fuckin’ Sixth Sense. I travelled back in time to meet my own father like Marty Goddamn McFly. What does it take to get some fucking interesting story-arcs up in this bitch? I think I’m going to fight a robot assassin from the future tomorrow, thus setting in motion the formation of the last resistance of mankind. If that doesn’t work, I just don’t even know. I guess I’ll get titty implants. It worked for Kate and Hurley.
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Ben’s Log, A revelation has come to me. After years of confusion and desperation, I believe I finally understand. I believe I finally understand everything, and that is all I have ever asked in return for my many sacrifices. It's perfectly clear now: Jacob was not the island, Richard is. Jacob was an incarnate version of an old god, hidden here in a place where old gods could still exist, not at odds with the modern world outside. Jacob was the avatar of a god, as was his brother, but it's Richard who is the avatar of the island itself. He cannot die in this place because he is this place. These long years have had me thinking that I served the island through Jacob, but I was merely serving Jacob because it is what the island, Richard himself, asked of me. It is Richard who should have my loyalty. Richard who is truly important to me. It is Richard who has my answers. And at long last I believe there are answers to be had... P.S. Nevermind. Richard was just beaten to death by a four-toed, bird-headed giant named ADAM-1. His death was foretold by the talking polar bear totem that’s apparently been haunting the dreamtime of the Oceanic Six. Also? Turns out I’m a woman. What the fuck, guys? Just… just what the fuck.
Find more from Robert on Twitter, Facebook or his own site, I Fight Robots, where you can share your theories about Lost with somebody who will really try to pretend to care (sort of).
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