December 29th, 1971
I’ve spent my entire life planning and trying to construct the ideal situation. Never really describing that situation in definite goals– but rather always having it like a carrot hung before my nose– some vague, amorphous life that would fulfill and make me happy.
It strikes me now that I have constructed the situation here and now– I stand waving my arms in the air– talking about Berkley, California, and Boston, Massachusetts, or New York City– and I envision the way everything will be–
I remember at the University of Missouri how my apartment would be. I decided it would smell of sandalwood soap– and it would be cool and airy and bright. Shaving in the bathroom at the dorm, I could close my eyes and experience it. I have to admit– my life, now, as it is, makes me happy. Quite happy. Really happy.
I just feel like a miserably pregnant woman– waiting, yearning for delivery– Knowing that soon all will be all right.
I want to make love. I want to get naked by candle light and kiss and rub and suck and lick and fuck.
That’s all that’s wrong with me.
A good piece of ass is all I need to completely throw off this pensive Julie Christie-ish little mood.