July 26th, 1981
The after effects of yesterday’s attack still lingers. I am spending the day indoors amid piles of New York Times sections and old movies blinking mindlessly in the background. When I’m in this state, I am totally dysfunctional. I am cross, short tempered, whining, self-pitying, hateful.
Without benefit of booze and drugs, my life is dreary and boring.
Rebelling against the tedium of my current self discipline– yearning for some drama, some excitement– even if it’s internal. My life has become structured, manageable, predictable and boring. I’m craving self induced euphoria. I lie in a sweaty heap on the sofa slipping in and out of sleep.