A haircut does more than change your face. It changes attitudes, self-esteem and moods. I chopped most of my long hair off. It was boring to have it, too warm, it took so long to wash and it just kept falling.

But that doesn’t satisfy my happiness. I’m so moody, by God, and humans get mad at me for it and tell me I am ungrateful. My mother specifically. When I try to explain to people that I have a blasted mood problem, they immediately tell me to go take some pills. No, I don’t like pills. I’ve always hated them. They get me so depressed, so crazy, so obsessive, so anxious and lethargic. And they destroy your organs! I cannot have a sentiment or some inclusion of creativity. No, by God, no. Fuck them.

Ever since my grandmother has made a voyage here from her native country about two weeks ago, it’s been simply hell. Every time she comes, we end up disagreeing or arguing nonstop. She has to stay in my home for six months, with my kinswoman knowing that I’ll probably feel worse. And I do now. Sinking and sinking. Excessive criticism comes from her mouth and she even told me that I am ugly whenever I am angered. Why, thank you, you tyrannical fiend. It isn’t her very words that anger me….It’s her presence….Or my mother’s. Lately I’ve gotten in these states where all the anger coincides with irritation and frustration, as all humans in sight vex me terribly. And if they speak to me in the slightest calm tone, I roar out loud and sob thereafter. I know she is very old but the sensation of my own lunacy is becoming more and more apparent. My sleep has been troubled. I cannot look at my Tom of Finland in peace. That’s not very nice.

That’s not the only thing that is troubling me. I’m bored. I’m really bored. Summer and winter are the seasons where I get badly depressed. I’ve tried reading (which I cannot do thanks to concentration), painting, movie marathons and more things like that. I know that I can always write but the fears…the lack of idea or words…tempt me do absolutely nothing. I want to do it most dearly….My novels need revisions.

All right, I know I sound tragically bored and silliness like that so I’ll just stop typing and listen to Frank Zappa. Good-by.

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