Except Scotty. I trust him. He wrote me the nicest letter (e-mail actually) that I have ever received. I am so happy. It's sort of ridiculous. I wish I had something to complain about, but I don't. I guess I don't get to bitch about my boyfriend. Damn! Just joking. I'm lucky to have gotten him. And I'm not going to forget that and do anything stupid like kiss another boy or go shoot dope. I'm not going to sabatoge myself any more than I have to.

I finally got the 7M6M4 split that I lost in New York over the Summer! Yipee!

My hand is still hurting a lot. I need to talk to the doctor a little more about whether I should get the knuckle pushed back in place or just live the rest of my life with one too few knuckles visible. I don't really mind it how it is, but I want to make sure there won't be any mobility issues. This is boring.

Bones I have broken: hand just before the knuckle, nose (twice), right arm (twice), left arm, right leg, right foot (playing Spud, of all things), and my shoulder. I believe that that is it. I think I need to drink more milk. Either that or I'm just stupid.

Dear You: I still think about you. I said we didn't have anything left to say. I'm not sure if that was true or not. It was true; I'm just not sure if it's still true. I gave you a lot of shit. You ignored me, mostly. You said you couldn't make yourself like me. You said we aren't friends anymore. I said we never were friends. I faked it pretty well. You faked it miserably. And I wonder if it's over. Or more accurately, I wonder how over it is. We'll see each other again. I know it. But will you pretend it's all the same as before? Or will you ignore me? Will I ignore you? Will it be like that night at Gilman St. a few months ago? Too many questions. I am comfortable without any answers. I wish you were too. That letter didn't hurt me. I think you meant it to. You seemed to say it was just an explanation. But it doesn't really matter what it was and what it wasn't. I wish you were a nicer guy. You fake that well. But I don't think it's true. I don't think much about you is true. It's wierd, I haven't thought about you in about a month. Since your letter, anyway. But for some reason, in the middle of writing I thought about you. I thought about talking to you and thinking I was talking to the air, talking to myself even though you were standing right in front of me.