I went to rehabilitation for the first time in 1998 when I was 16. I'd been on dope for a while, and I needed it, but I didn't know that. I also set up my first date in a long fucking while about that time. I was at Gilman St. at a Babyland show (I think it was Babyland) and Bobbo introduced me to this guy and I ended up just asking him out. He's younger than I am and he was not sure he was gay (he's sure now). I asked him out and I arranged to drive to the South Bay to go on a date on Saturday. Friday rolled around and I got shipped off to the psych ward to detox for a while and then to rehab to get better. This wasn't by choice. Certianly not my choice anyway, no matter how necessary it was in retrospect. But this guy, Jaime, was hot. And I had a date and I was excited. And then I missed it. I called him crying and said I couldn't because I was going to rehab. And I think the first thing I said to my parents when they told me I was going to treatment was, "But Mom, are you trying to ruin my love life? I have a fucking date this weekend!" As funny as that is. I never talked to him again. I wasn't really in a state to be picking up where I left off when I got out. And shit was fucked up for a while. And things got better too. But I figured I'd lost my chance to see this fucking hot guy I'd gotten the fucking balls to ask out. But, alas, my plans were thwarted. Now I'm hearing Scott talk about his friend from the South Bay that is obsessed with Babyland, is really hot, and (look of astonishment hits Chuck's face) is named Jaime. Well, fuck. That's too much. I don't want to see him again. I'm pretty embaressed about the whole thing. He remembers me too. That's scary. And, according to Scotty, he is still really hot. Oh well. It's a coincidence to laugh at. But these things sort of weird me out. At least I'm spelling weird right now. Tilda would be happy.

I'm sort of lonely, but I'm also sort of happy. And I do it to myself. I should have kicked it with Apphia tonight, but I decided I didn't want to and told her I had plans with Scott. I don't. And I think Scott is busy or something. As he was last night. But we had a great weekend together. And I tried something new that I totally thought I would never try, and it was great, and not nearly as gross as I thought it would be. And I got two new swimsuits that, for the first time in my life, show off my body, not conceal it. I am no longer scared of myself, I've decided. Well, not too scared of myself.

I don't want to be friends with Douglas. I don't really want to speak to him. But I don't really know how to tell him this. I will sound like an asshole, and like I'm trying for attention, and I really don't give a fuck about that shit. I sort of DO want him to know that he is sort of an insensitive prick, but I don't want an apology, and I don't want him to change because I tell him to. I want him to want to change because he knows he conceals being a fucking asshole behind a very pleasant, sweet exterior. I like living with him. I really do. He makes good company most of the time. I just don't want to talk to him anymore. It makes me depressed. And I do a good enough job of that sometimes, without anyone elses help, especially his reliable help in making me angry and depressed.

My processer, Hal, is still broken, so I'm back to printing black and white, which I haven't done in fucking years. YEARS. It's sort of cool. I don't remember what it's like to print with the lights on. It's nice sometimes, to touch chemicals and swish liquids and deal with wet paper. It's nice. It's so much more personal, not Hal's cold steel body and dry paper on both ends, and no lights. I still like shooting and printing color better, but it's a nice break that came quite unexpected.

I need to shave...