June 17th, 1977

After a romantic theatrical electrical storm. Thunder and lightning. Knocked all the lights out on my side of the street. Making myself dinner in a silent candle-lit apartment. The sink dripping and car noises on the wet streets. A hot muggy night in the city.

Don invites me over for a surprise party (or rather, I called him in the midst of it and he invited me over.) No, I must wait here at home for the lights to come on. They are going out later and ask me to join them. I say yes, call me. Knowing I will have time to decide and possibly change my mind.

In the old days “going out” was nearly synonymous with romance, excitement, and falling in love. Now it means the despair of trying to feel good about the way I look. Mr. Hog out on the town. And usually, I’m so drunk by the time I do go out that by the time any action materializes I can barely keep it together and just want to pass out. (Which I usually do, in someone’s bed.) No, going out just don’t mean what it did before.