November 21st, 1979
I wonder tonight at the acuity of taking up this journal again; of continuing, what, upon rereading consists largely of embarrassment for me. Yet I think perhaps it is exactly how I must begin this new world. This new journal. In the midst of all this crap that my life has become, I begin to fashion new days.
Curled on the sofa under this lamplight: what is this, my ninth beer? And after this, there’s bourbon or scotch. No, the bourbon, I think.