October 13 1935 / Fontainebleau, France

Sometimes I have a day where I keep losing things. It happens to everyone I suppose… oh, where are my keys, what happened to my glasses, where did I place that fifty-thousand dollars? That sort of thing. Today was especially annoying because Pierre Allain was visiting and I wanted to show him the climbing boots I constructed from real mountain goat hooves. They had truly taken me to the next level of boulder scaling, and I thought he and his pals could really benefit from their use.

But unfortunately, he never got a chance to see them as I had forgotten where I put them. So instead the whole day was wasted turning the place upside down for the blasted boots, me growing more and more irritated. First, the irritation was self-directed. But as the futile search wore on and Pierre kept insisting that he didn’t need to see them, that it wasn't worth the effort to find 50 dead goats to harvest the hooves needed to build my boot, that he really just came over for a scotch, cigar, and conversation, my irritation turned to fury and from me onto him. “Is that how you want to go through life, Pierre,” I spat scornfully as I tipped over a bookcase. “Turning away from every opportunity to better yourself?!? You sicken me!!” Eventually, I violently flipped over the settee he was sitting on and called it a day as far as looking for the boots was concerned. I took to running wind sprints in the hallway to blow off steam and after a few dozen sets, I returned, aroused Pierre out of unconsciousness and enjoyed that scotch, cigar, and conversation he referred to earlier. On a side note, I never realized how many chipped teeth Pierre has. Strange.

(Editor's Note: The following letter was attached to this entry. Click image to enlarge)