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January 21st, 1977
The prospects before me for this weekend has my entire system tilting. Last night, both of us drunk and wasted on poppers after a brawling evening at the Court Jester, called Gary, Gregg’s Philadelphia romance, at my insistence to find out if there was any possibility of his friend Gene’s being interested in me. It seems there is. My heart has been throbbing all week over him. I feel so childish and out of control over these feelings. And I hate feeling out of control. My emotions are rarely triggered to this kind of commotion. And, it seems, those few times that they have— have generally been fairly bad experiences for me. The first pain in high school over Mark. Then my big heartbreak over Tony. Then Jimmy. Then Richard. Then to lesser degrees, what’s-his-name from Woodies, who just used me and treated me like shit. Then the always half-crazy thing that petered out with Gregg. And Juan. And Mario. And all the others that I rejected. Nothing has worked. I am leery of all the efforts.
And here I am again— after nearly a month of almost non-activity. Of not drinking. Of staying home. And here I am facing what I am trying to manufacture into torrid romance— and a dinner date tomorrow night in Philadelphia with Gene.