09.29.01 - 12:22 a.m.

Per usual, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not sure I want to write, because it's all self-pity and missing him and wallowing in myself night. I want to eat because I've had nothing but weird snacky things as meals all day but don't want to give into what my brain perceives as compensation for boredom. I'm not tired but Friday night television is boring me into a coma. So what else is there to do?

For a while, I forgot it was Friday night and wanted to call the Bass - but no, she's probably out with Jonboggs (one of those names that must be the first and last always spoken in tandem) and Co. doing something, as one should, and as I would be doing were I not in Johnstown and living one of my other lives. The Chicago life or the Bucknell life or even the high school life, where at this point I would probably be at Eat n' Park. So, yes, Bassie! I want to come out and visit you Monday. If at all possible. What are you doing? What are you doing? (said in foreign exchange student voice from the Inbred Brothers sketch)

And I saw Kayleen's name in my inbox today and it gave my heart an unpleasant little jolt. I don't want to talk to her - her emails are written so friendly and nice, but I just feel - not threatened, really, but uncomfortable when I think of her. I have nothing to say, I'm running away again, trying to put something else in my past. I haven't spoken with anyone from the program since the attacks, and each day makes it harder to think of contacting them again. Why do I do it, this moving from group to group, this reinvention almost every year? What am I afraid of?

I think I'm sleeping in Bassett's bed tonight. Not only for the simple reason that mine is covered with clothing detritus but because I want to smell him and feel like he's still around. Small consolation, a prize for the runner-up, but I need to feel you here with me and pretend I'm not alone. I am biting my lips too often. I only want the good parts of growing up, the comforts and the independence without the loan-paying and the sad job routine. I want you. I want our TV nights and I want to dress up for you and go out to nice dinners. I want to walk holding hands through piles of leaves on fall days and smell other homes' fireplaces before going home to ours. I want to read your diary tonight that I know you won't write till late, because I know your routines and I love them all. I want to be there when you get home.