January 25th, 1981

A weekend piddles past; now it’s late Sunday night and I have just sat down and lit a joint after three hours of hyperactive skittering about the apartment. I washed dishes and cleaned the bathrooms, straightened the living room and vacuumed. I washed clothes hours ago and am still waiting to get a dryer. I walked to Allan’s this morning and had coffee with him and listened to tales of his hot date last night. Then I spent a couple of hours bar hopping. Beautiful warmish day and the bar hints of the summer crowd. Ramrod and then Badlands, where they had a Country and Western band. Everyone is taller than me and I seem to be invisible. It’s one of those days when I couldn’t get noticed if I stood on my head. Listlessly anxious. Almost depressed. This diet takes it’s toll. What I need is a six-pack of beer to mellow out with. But my determination to lose weight is total. I’ll put up with this nervousness and irritability if it means getting rid of this inner tube around my middle. I suspend all hand-wringing over my emotional neediness, my loneliness, until I have a trim little 150 pound body to present to the world. When I get myself together, which means losing weight, starting to live on a workable budget, and perhaps start feeling good about my work– then , I can raise my expectation.

Something annoys me about a 30 year old man obsessed with merchandising himself to the world.