7 December 1980
I hate being home, I hate being stuck here like an invalid, I hate being alone and I hate the fact that I can't work, that I can't do anything but sit here and study, that they won't even let me into classes. That I'm behind, that I'm never going to catch up and I might as well quit. I don't know who the fuck I was trying to fool, thinking I could do this.
I should look into something else.
I hate that one of the only people who cares about me without strings, no matter what I do, is always fucking presumed to be my unrequited fucking Byronic love or something.
I fucked everything up.
No fucking surprise.
I'm so bored I'm reading Charles Bukowski.