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June 9th, 1973
Throwing out clothes I’ve carried about me all of my (independent) life. Shabby, sad clothes that remind me– make me feel again– all the pains of a hurt, damaged gawky homosexual– fighting for survival– of sorts.
Last night I got my hair wet in the bathtub and I combed it all straight back– a real greasy slicked back head. All those years with my hair short did I think it would make me look like– be accepted as– and therefore be butch and tough and straight–?
God– how many swaggers I’ve effected in my life– praying that it worked– all this tension of desperately trying to be loved by being what I’m not.
It’s a game that leads to madness and cannot be won.
I know I am not a Christian. It makes me ashamed to have ever been sympathetic to such a pathological sickness.
Death for days, honey.