Zim called. I told him I was working. He said, “Doing those rewrites for your agent? You’re such a pussy.” I decided I needed a break. Zim and I went up to the dollar movie at the Playboy movie theater on 57th this afternoon to see Towering Inferno. (It was either that or a John Holmes porno on 42nd Street.) Got seats in the balcony, smoked a joint and shared a pint of Old Mr. Boston Peach Brandy. Laughed our asses off. The film is packed with all these amazing stars like Steve McQueen and Paul Newman and Faye Dunaway and Fred Astaire. What would be the literary equivalent to Towering Inferno? That’s the book I want to write.

As we left, Zim laid three hits of white cross (amphetamine) on me. Said he bought it from the Hell’s Angels on 3rd Street. (These are the same Hells Angels who threw a hooker off their roof two years ago.) I chugged the speed with a can of Mountain Dew, and headed home. The chemicals hammered my brain stem just as I was unlocking my front door. It’s quite a feeling. Like being reborn. I sat down and started writing. Did not stop until about an hour ago when my thoughts got too tangled up. I washed the floor and I sorted my books. Talked to Katie on the phone for two hours. Now it’s about three a.m. and I’m crawling the walls. I have to go out.

December 29, 1977

The new year started early. Just woke up and it’s dark out already. I think I ended up in Chinatown last night, not sure. Fuck. The pages I wrote yesterday are almost worthless. Yesterday was a waste of time. I have to edit. Have to focus. Drinking coffee. This is painful, but this is good. This is how it’s done. Keep going, whatever it takes. And stay away from Zim.

LATER:

Katie came by. She’s been nursing me out of this hangover all night. Behind her back, I sniffed some heroin and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. She’s a good woman.

December 31, 1977

It’s snowing. Zim called with a list of parties we can crash but I told him I wasn’t feeling well. I copped some H and I’m going to watch the ball drop on TV, sniff drugs and smoke cigarettes. Katie’s in a bad mood because of her work and we argued, so I’m alone tonight. This isn’t fair. I should finish my book, dedicate it to Katie and kill myself.

January 1, 1978

Completely obsessed with the fact that Katie is angry at me. But I went for a long walk along the ruts of the snowy streets and figured out my situation. There is no such thing as unrequited love. If Katie doesn’t understand that she needs me in her life, then I don’t give a shit if she abandons me. It makes no difference. This is a woman who has tremendous difficulty with her own emotions. Obviously. But she is not the issue. I can’t do anything about her art. The only person I need to think about is me. I’m free. I have things to do. She’ll be sorry.