The True Story Behind The Earliest Known Photograph

From the diary of Nicéphore Niépce, 1825:

I love my horse, Monsieur Putain de Camion. He reminds me of my first wife, except his penis is larger.

We have a transcendent connection. When I look into his eyes, I see my own weary existential soul; an inquisitive being looking for a singular, unquestionable truth. When he looks into mine, he urinates uncontrollably.

Why is it that horses understand me, but humans don't? Why don't my constant complaining and violent mood swings endear me to people? I wish there was some sort of book that could condense my thoughts into a single page. Then people would understand me better. Of course, my face would have to be in that book.

How would one get a face into a book?

I know, I'll mix silver and chalk, expose it to the light and see what happens! I'll call it "photography" because anything with the suffix -graphy sounds really impressive. Typography (the art of writing with a lot of mistakes) is where I learned that.

And if I could get my face into this book, it shouldn't just be a picture of me. That's boring! It would have to be something exciting like me from a really high angle, so I look much thinner than I am, or something that makes me look cool, like a picture of me with an attractive woman I've met three times.

But how would people know that I'm popular in this book of face? I would have to show myself with friends. YES, "friends"! That way people who might look at my book would think that I'm cool enough to spend time with, and not an inveterate masturbator who is slowly dying inside.

But wait; I don't have any friends (except for Pierre the 'touched Belgian' who thinks I'm a Schnauzer in my mid-30s named Flopsy). I guess I'll have to take a picture with the next best thing; my horsey. At least he doesn't mind my gentle sobbing and awkward strokings. I must remember to wear my finest tri-cornered hat (or wearable Hamantashen, as I like to call it).

Then once I've put together this book of face, I must spend time decorating it with make-believe games like "throw a snowball with a hobo pirate" and then jot non-sensical notes in the margins like "just got home, now time to drink #mayo with @disappointment".

Boy, I can't wait! I'm sure my picture invention will be looked at as an artistic method to record events, not a vain way for losers to present themselves as more attractive/popular than they really are.

Underground photographs of Mr. Niépce's grave were taken in 2006. He was found to be lying on his stomach after rolling over.