September 11, 1997
Checked the mailbox today. I was surprised, but not really, by the amount of letters I had received. Everybody apparently has something to tell me. N. said I was a terrible friend. M. said I reminded him of a 100 needles from Mom. P. said I talked too much and didn’t give him enough credit. L. said he loves me more and more each day but now he is sick. D. said I complained too much. There were no letters from S. but I remembered something funny he did once. I had been really mad at him, stewing for hours, during which I painted a screaming face in yellow on top red and blue squares. When he finally came home he walked into my studio and saw it, he said “That’s cool, I like that.”
