May 29th, 1976

Could I get any more depressed? I went to bed, passed out drunk and stoned on the sofa to a blaring television set. Slept that way all night long— finally waking to a blank screen at 5:30 this morning and going to bed. Didn’t get up until 1:00 in the afternoon to Allen calling me. Went back to bed, slept till about 3:00— up for another hour or so. Long phone conversation with Arlene, six-pack of beer and fish sticks and potato chips. Back to bed. Now Allen on the phone with Steve in Georgetown. Wants to pick me up in 45 minutes to go to Steve’s— then on to the Pier 9 to boogie.

I have to defend my bed of pain. Out of the question for them to come here. I am persisting. I despise Allen right now— for never quite understanding my plight. He has no idea that I am broke— that my phone may be turned off on Tuesday. That I can’t pay my rent— that I’m a month late now and that it’s due again Tuesday. Then there’s the gas company— the money I owe Henry— the money I owe Mary Jean. If I don’t get the loan from HFC I have no idea what will happen to me. And Allen is annoyed that I am no fun— that I am languishing and moping around in my dirty cluttered apartment. I would rather die than have Steve see this apartment and how I live. I hate Allen for not understanding.