I got eye-ball fucked all night in this bar tonight, and I didn't even feel good. It just made me feel worse. The bartender was nice, he kept giving me juice for free. And that was nice. But fuck man, don't I deserve better than a nice bartender serving non-alcoholic drinks? Sure, I tip well, but still, I feel like I deserve better.

Scott was better. But he can't help anymore. He just can't. He's too caught up in his own shit to examine mine, as ugly as it is. And, at this point, it's not his responsibility, it's my fucking own. It's hard to accept.

By the way, I ran out of anti-depressants just now. While I was typing. My Remeron is dissolving on my tongue, and I wonder how I feel about it, I'm done, out of it. Someone is sending me some more, but it won't come for a few days. And even if I went to a shrink, I don't know that he'd re-prescribe them. I need them, I think. I don't know. Shrinks are so cautious around heroin addicts, it's hard. And I can't avoid my past.

Same goes for Scotty. I can't avoid him, but I can't pay too much attention either. He asked me why I care whether he's sleeping with Max or not, and I can't give him a good answer. I mean, I can't say I love him. I do, but that's not it. We're over, and that's that.

I'm out of benzos too, so I'm probably not going to sleep tonight. And I hate that. I don't have class until 2, but still, I can't seem to bring up the motivation to care. I'm scared is all. I'm scared about Scott. I'm scared about New York. I'm scared. And isn't that all right?

Elvis Costello isn't helping.