Is this an existential crisis? I think so. Tilda would know, but I don't think I can ask her. She hasn't seemed too interested in writing. I decided I'm too lazy to apply to Columbia; I'm not going to get in, so what the fuck is the point. I am sick of thinking of me. I am fucking sick of it. My whole fucking life revolves around me. I don't even go to shows anymore to support stupid bands that I don't like. I got stuck listening and talking to Doug about changing the world. I hate Doug. I really don't like him very much. He is so smug. So sure of himself. And he has changed the world. And I find myself lying and saying I have too, by saving someone's life. But I don't think it's true. I don't think I saved her life. I bet she's dead. I really do. Last time I saw her, I thought she would be better, so much better. But I don't know. It's been two years since I've seen her. And who knows? No one knows. And I find myself telling Doug that the world isn't worth changing, and that what he did doesn't mean shit. That it just makes more people get richer, and big corporations have to fight more to get richer and little people can get richer easier. And I find myself almost believing that it isn't worth changing... that I am incapable of doing anything worthwhile. Or even worse, that even if I could, it's not worth it. I can change what's possible for the world, but I I can't make this place better. I can't institute any massive change that will make people stop being assholes. And I look at Doug, who has done something 'worthwhile,' who has benefited the small man, made the world 'better' and he's such fucking asshole. I don't look up to that. Look at Ghandi. He changed millions and millions of lives. And beat his wife. Look at Kennedy, pushing civil rights along (and yes, I know all about all his predecessors that really did more than he did, and they were all assholes too) and he was cheating on his wife with fucking movie stars. I mean, give me a fucking break? Who am I to do anything 'good.' I'm a drug addict. I'm a kid. All the things that I'd like to say I am, I'm lying: I'm a photographer. I'm an artist. I'm a mathmetician. But it's all a fucking lie. I am not printing photos. I am not doing journalism. I am not looking for gallery openings. I am not looking to get published. I am not learning any math. I don't even keep track of the math I do know. I just want a tattoo of a calculus symbol because I love the beauty of math. But tha't's not going to change shit. That's not going to make anyone's life a better one to live. It's only going to make me happy with a new tattoo that means something to me. To me, and to no one else. And it's so fucking selfish. Just like everything is. I want to work for the needle exchange. But even that sort of social help is sort of hurting. And I'd just get strung out again. AGAIN. And I can't fucking take that. And it enables other fuckers to get strung out. And maybe, yeah, they do it a little safer, but maybe the risks get people off dope. That's stupid. Needle exchanges are so good. No one deserves AIDS, no one deserves Hep C, and no one deserves an abscess. Especially Dawn. But she's probably dead. Especially Nicole, but she, also, dropped off the face of the planet. Especially Todd, but he is fucking dead. Motherfuckers. And there's nothing I can do about it. I can't change shit. Wow, this is certainly strange. I don't even have any ideas for changing the world. I want to publish photos. I want to discover math. That could change the world. But I CAN'T do it NOW. I need to fucking wait. And that is the most frustrating thing, because I feel so damn selfish waiting. And I don't know what to do in the meantime. And fuck Doug. And fuck his unceasing selfish selflessness, his 'I don't want to do anything with you because I'm doing something for someone else.' I'm so sick of that shit. And I'm sick of not changing the world. When John Reed was my age he was protesting, doing journalism at school and preparing to go to Mexico for the Revolution. And then to Russia for the real revolution which he would report so faithfully and memorably. Fuck existentialism.

I'm going to Scott's. At least I'm in love, and it, for once in my fucking lifem, is reciprocated.

Oh, and I'm not really depressed. I'm just feeling slightly existential. Don't worry about me, diary, I'm fine. Just ready for change. And wondering if change is really worth anything anymore. Is it? I can only convince myself (at least fleetingly) that it must be.