I need privacy, I need time alone. I used to love to go hide in my room alone with a book or write and suck my thumb. Writing has always been revenge and it makes me feel guilty. I feel guilty and I try to always keep my notebooks away from others, especially Ted and Maddy. Feels unsafe to feel these feelings. Feels unsafe and guilty to write.

Pardon me while I spit in your minimum. Is everybody drinking their minimum? There is a minimum drunk you have to be to think this is funny. Honey, you’re plowed; you can stop. This is tomorrow morning, talking to you tonight. Stop now.

Falling asleep last night, Ted told me his shell gets harder and harder. I told him how Judith said I didn't need my protective devices anymore. I wish there were more truth and realness between us. We're still playing roles.

Reading over some old notebooks last night. Funny how detached I felt from the anguished entries of April and May, not even horrified. One thing I'm happy about is they sound strong. I hate the parts that are explain-y and weak. Parts of them are really fierce and angry, and now that I'm more accepting of that anger, it's easier to feel.

Tonight is is my last performance. I can't give anymore. I'm old and I'm tired and I've fucked everybody already anyway.

The room we were going to sleep in is infested with ladybugs, which was great, so long as it was light. But when they started landing on me in the dark, I got squeamish as hell. Was told by Ted's friend Rich it was bourgeois of me to react so violently to bugs.

Felt angry and miserable leaving Judith’s office, annoyed by her. “Well, you have to pay your dues.” Fuck off, fuck her, fuck that, I've paid plenty of dues, fuck everybody. I guess the guy bagging coffee at Manhattan Deli hates his job too.

Last night was the work team dinner and I had to bolt right after eating. First one up and gone, though I was having a good time. One, Ted was waiting for me at my place. Two, I was getting a little too free and loud, and didn’t trust myself not to start trouble.