December 28th, 1977
I realized that my journal is just years of the same verbiage. I drag my box of journals out tonight under some pretext– looking for my old telephone directory that has Diane’s phone number in it. Anyway– the result is that I now have the entire mess spread out over my dining room floor and I have just spent an hour or so reading of other Larrys going through the same drama that this Larry is going through. I hear a twenty year old Larry moaning about his filthy apartment and wishing that he could stop smoking and drinking and spending so much money and start to lead an orderly life and to FIND A LOVER.
And I am sitting here years later still in a dumpy apartment– still drunk and still stoned and still wishing I had a lover. Still finding making myself happy the hardest chore in my life. Impossible.