Jan. 30, 1976... Sharon, Brad and I are going to the florists in a bit. Gosh just 'cause I talk about things that would be neat to have, and I know I would not really want all of it, Sharon says "Boy, you really have a lot more things than I ever had and you know you have to pay me back for these things. You have more than I do considering inflation." Well, I had known I was 'gonna pay her back even if she wanted to give them to me as gifts. Sometimes I wish I was starving and poor and everything! Coming from my sister the statement was quite a shock, evoking self-pitying sentiments from me in my last sentences, which now strike me as a literary pout of pure distress. I had always considered Sharon as a statuesque epitome of goodness, incapable of resentment of any kind; after the initial surprise had worn off, I was glad to know she was human, for maintaining such sanctity 24 hours each day was impossible. I learned during the year that people felt obligated to be nice to me (and, indeed, they wanted to be nice) because of the trials which I endured. Since they were human, however, their jealousies and stored grievances would sometimes appear in a choice moment wherein their self-control was at a low ebb. I believe that everyone, including those having well-aligned values, possess a foremost problem which, despite even the greatest amenities of good health and even a loving home, can exist within the minds of the most fortunate individuals; indeed, some people are ashamed of their "problems" since they appear so insignificant when compared to those in other lives. Nevertheless, the problem lives within them and causes real emotional duress. Returning to my observation, I realized that people who, within themselves, felt that my problems were essentially greater than theirs, still needed to air those complaints. Feeling hindered by me, to a certain extent, their frustrations would sometimes be directed at me while their true source of anger remained unspoken. Such was the case with my sister. Following the small episode, I was less enthusiastic about revealing my catalog reveries, yet I recovered fully, losing a goodly spirit and gaining a fine sister. It seems everyone likes to receive mail, especially when the mail carrier leaves a bundle composed of more interesting things than just bills. My love for mail grew into an obsession while I stayed home, and many days found me impatiently glued to the window, glaring up the avenue when a substitute carrier delayed the hour of delivery. Worse, however, than waiting for the mail carrier was when the mail arrived having nothing addressed, or of interest, to me; I was not picky... I welcomed even "junk mail"! Jan. 31, 1976... I woke up again, which is a miracle in itself (followed by a dissertation explaining my plans for the day).