Because it's bad news, it gets to be the first thing you read about in this entry... "Body Pulled From East River Confirmed to Be That of Spaulding Gray."

I can't decide whether I want to reread Swimming to Cambodia, or whether that would be too painful. I don't know where Monster in a Box got packed, although that would probably be ten times as painful to reread. And the fact that it was probably suicide makes it worse. Oh, Spaulding Gray... "An American Original: Troubled, Inner-Directed and Cannot Type."

I probably ought to lay off the Sylvia Plath for the next few days I'm alone... and remember my medication too. Yep, I'm all alone... my father went to a conference in Columbus and then is going to my grandparents' house for a quick visit. It is, of course, somewhat dangerous for me to be by myself, but tagging along or finding a place to stay while he was away would have taken a considerable amount of arrangement and effort that I didn't feel like expending... and it would have been me expending it, of course. So if I hurt myself or die, oh well.

Argh, almost want to do something to myself out of spite now. I hate me.

I don't think my panther is speaking to me right now. This is a really bad time for that, but... I couldn't tell him that. If he doesn't want to talk to me, he doesn't. I can't... blackmail him, I guess. I don't want to.

I do want to talk to him.

There was going to be not-sad stuff here, except that now I just don't care. I went and made myself depressed. Sob, sob, whine, whine, annoying and stupid me.