February 15th, 1981

False start. I expect to get up today and attack the loose ends of my life. The apartment, as usual, is a wreck. I need to clean house and wash clothes and scrub floors and paint walls. Instead, already at 11:00 am, I am on my second beer and feel content to sit here on the floor in my underwear and sweatshirt and type about the disorder of my life. Doug is supposed to call me tonight and the plan is that he will spend the night and tomorrow with me. After a week of knowing him there has been no intellectual spark. And I realize that Good Sex is an incomplete package for me. Regardless of how satisfying a good lay is, I have to have concurrent intellectual stimulation to keep a scene going. I tell myself it is foolish to deny myself good sex simply because it doesn’t carry the promise of a relationship. I know that sexually I am turned on by brutish dumb men. I know that intellectually I need artistic sensitivity. The twain rarely meet.

It is now 12:00 pm. The object is to throw my life together and be in the bars by 4:00. I need to get fucked senseless today.