had a fight with billy tonight. basically was about how i think she's not really trying. she complains about not having a mind...but it's funny...everyone who has done a lot of drugs reads a lot...just because their social skills are so shot, and their grip and satisfaction with reality is gone, so they turn to fiction for companionship. she's always terribly vague about what she's complaining about, and gets angry when i can't read her mind and just talk about what she'd been talking about two hours earlier. i think doing work is like anything else. there are two types...the people who don't need help and can do it on their own, and the people who need help to get through things (the psychiatrists pets)...and i think if you're a PP, you should at least admit it and don't try to pretend you're a hardassed cynic that can deal with it. i get through shit becasue i can't stand being weak like that...being disabled by anything...i have to get on the horse again, even if my spine is poking through my back...maybe thats why people tell me "aw baby, you're not stupid."