Kathy to Hilary, March 21, 1973 cont., Tehran, Iran Reproach time: I know you’re busy, but I would like to get some words from you…once up on a time we were friends and now I hardly know you, though I suppose in this modern age and time we have no room for sentimentality. But I miss you. 17-year-old-hoodship approaches, sich auld women we be!
Was it ten years ago when we were April fairies? Five years ago when we were held under the thrall of Mr. Kay? I feel so old and so useless and so hopeless. I see nothing before me. In some four years I have screwed myself up so completely that I doubt that I’ll ever be normal. I don’t want to be normal, but I don’t want to be crippled inside forever. Maybe you never noticed, but the reaction from the B. affair (unworthy soul) twisted me.
Oh, I look the same as ever. Everyone tells me I’m beautiful, but I can’t imagine why—blue eyes and white skin, I guess, when everyone else is dark. And sexy. That’s absurd. And a genius and all sorts of fantastic things, but I’ve got the largest inferiority complex scurrying around on two legs. Oh well. I’ve become a scheming, weepy female and I can’t stand it. Vain, illogical, insecure, and you-name-it-I’ve-got-it.
Still I try I really do not to brood. I’m very busy and industrious having taken over the yearbook. I get fired up by the whole idea of w hat we could do with a yearbook. I keep saying “next year” we’ll do this and that, but we’re doing our best for this one. Let’s see, I have my thousand and one termpapers, one of which I’ve done, my baccalaureate exams, four or five acquaintances, and one boyfriend of eleven months’ duration I can’t live with or without.
6:10:58 AM 
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