December 17th, 1971

Ho Ho Ho folks. Well here’s the roving psychic DuPont Circle. Cold. Grey. Cloudy. December day. Stoned. Stoned. Stoned. I haven’t been taking this old life very seriously lately. Naughty boy. Now I find myself all crashy. 

So, another book. I could not get my shit together to go to work this morning– so I thought I’d call in and “remind” them that this was my day to go back to the dermatologist, that I’d be a little late. I thought I’d go in about noon. So, I went back to sleep and noon rolled around and I knew that I just couldn’t go through all the hassle involved in getting my aching body up into a cold room– getting a shower using half-damp and smelly towels that have been strewn about the bathroom for a month– then, drag myself down to get a bus which I would have to pay for in pennies because not only did I not have taxi fare again but not a dime– just pennies scattered about the apartment. While I was still lying naked on my sofa debating all these questions I heard a noise in the apartment. Raising myself up on one elbow I was just in time to catch Solomon dragging a pair of my brush denim pants into an empty shirt box that had been thrown on the floor– and pissing desperately on them.

I realized at this point that my mood was irreparable for the rest of the day. I ambled out and called Gregg– even forewarning him of the “danger” that he might have to go to Oklahoma in my stead tomorrow.  

Then, back to Peggy’s where I got unbelievably stoned on some might fine hash– then back to my apartment and a hefty pipe-full of dynamite marijuana. Now not more than an hour later I am sitting here writing, writing away– my sad little penance for bizarre imagined failures. All my life. all my life in the course of that hour, I have been to the bank. Withdrew $50.00– stopped at Schwartz’s drug store where I bought this new book, two giant Hershey’s bars, cigarettes and 20 some dollars worth of Christmas cards.  

Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch.