What if I didn't know what I felt anymore? I probably had never known what I felt. I only liked getting drunk and being in love. If I wasn't either of those things, I simply needed my rent, cigarettes and coffee, simple enough. I really liked the life of the poet.

Fear of not being understood is the greatest fear I thought lying on the bathroom floor at 11 P.M. Worse than not pleasing people, worse than anything else I can think of. Worse than being cold or alone. Worse than getting old.

It's lonely to be alive and never know the whole story.

Someone wants you to be a machine or else they think its just a passing phase. Lesbian per se. For their benefit I should be a mannequin—no, I never think of fucking men—they're never cute I think they smell, etc. Then you don't talk to them and it gets worse like nobody's real. I mean I am a dyke per se but unless I squelch all my ambiguities—be like a guy who won't admit another guy is cute or he'd be a faggot—Oh, no. Well I don't care. I just intend to carry on. I'm not going to worry about my persuasions or everyone's intentions—I know just how real I am. Honestly. Money in the bank.

I never wanted to go to hell, but I thought I could date the devil.