Dearest Barbara

I don’t like it here. I don’t like people here. I like it home (N.Y.) and I like you and I want to see you. Must I always be miserable? I try so hard to make people reject me. Why? I don’t want to write this letter. It would be better to remain silent. “Wow! Am I fucked up”

Got here on a Thurs. went to the desert on Sat., weeks latter to San Francisco. I DONT KNOW WHERE I AM. Rented a car for 2 weeks it cost me $138.00. I WANT TO DIE. I have told [Redacted] and 5 others like her to kiss my ass and what stench, spineless, stupid prostitutes they were. I HAVENT BEEN TO BED WITH NO BODY. And won’t untill after the picture and I am home safe in N.Y.C. (snuggly little town that it is) sounds unbelievable but it’s the truth I swear. So hold everything, stop breathing, stop the town all of N.Y.C. untill (should have trumpets here) James Dean returns.

Wow! Am I fucked up. I got no motorcycle I got no girl. HONEY, shit writting in capitals doesn’t seem to help either. Haven’t found a place to live yet, still living with my father—HONEY. Kazan sent me out here to get a tan. Haven’t seen the sun yet. (fog & smog) Wanted me healthy looking. I look like a prune. Don’t run away from home at too early an age or you’ll half to take vitamins the rest of your life. Wish you cooked. I’ll be home soon. Write me please. I’m sad most of the time. Awful lonely too isn’t it. (I hope youre dying) BECAUSE I AM.

Love.

Jim {Brando Clift} Dean

My address is (fathers that is) is
1667 So. Bundy Drive
L.A. 25, Calif.