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February 25th, 1982
Rest and recuperation— I’m taking today and tomorrow off from work. After two full weeks, including weekends, of intense activity. I’ve managed my energy well though, I think. Even maintaining a busy schedule with Howie and the rest of my life. I am feeling mildly guilty about taking this time off. It’s so difficult for me to be assertive about my needs. It’s necessary though.
I had the interview with the personnel department at Condé Nast on Monday. Nothing definite. The first issue of Vanity Fair is not scheduled until March ‘83. Staffing should begin in the summer.
So here I am. With no dramatic changes on the horizon. The great build-up of energy and excitement during the past few weeks has faded. The mirage of a great new job and a new lover and a new home has all disappeared. The job lies questionably in the dim future. Howie turns out to be a sissy and I stare into space and dream of my cowboy lover. So here I am. On a cold February morning— a chubby grey-haired man who is 31 years old and works for a retail ad agency in Manhattan and lives in a floor-through in the Village with an old friend. There’s nothing wrong with this picture really. Like all my life so far, it is OK. And the deprived child continues
to ache with need for a daddy and a home.