Discover more from The Last Hundred Miles
June 1st, 1973
I don’t know of any other way to start a new notebook than to just start writing in it. I had to get a new one. My last– a big blue high school job– is, sadly– not very functional.
I am worried because I feel as if there are probably some very good, important reasons why I should love Richard.
and I do not.
I don’t like to be with you, Richard. I am critical of you. Thank God I am going out of town tomorrow. I get a sick feeling in my stomach at the idea that I have to go home and spend the evening– an entire evening with him.
Is Richard a fool to be such a slave to material existence? Such passion– such animation in his face when he talks of decorating the apartment, of idiotic track lighting– of his beautiful customers– “adorable girl, just adorable.”
Richard says he despises faggots, yet can’t he see that he is the international stereotyped epitome of a faggot.
What’s wrong, Larry? don’t you like faggots either? why does it bother you so much?
–Christ I wish I were gone.
I want a fantastic nice apartment too– but why do I so resent the same enthusiasm in Richard.
Listen, I have no desire or need to capture my experience in a diary. I use this diary for the purpose of sorting out my chaotic and disordered thoughts– It’s a problem-solving therapeutic device.
as opposed to some creative enterprise
the little Jewish man at the liquor store asked me– when I started writing in my diary at the counter– if I was writing about him for a magazine.
Richard is dying to read this. When I went to the liquor store I took it with me.
He was highly insulted.