I suppose I should take Alexander Wollcott's quip to Dorothy Parker to heart, and have the doctors insert zippers on my wrists. It would make for much easier clean-up and much better blog posts.
No, this isn't a cry for help or an admission of 'sewing accidents' (the pleasant euphemism for self-mutilation during junior high). I'm just saying that I wish I could do it. Every time I try it floods out, in melodramatic, passive-aggressive, martyristic ways. While I've started to say it in emails, and in conversations with friends, saying it in a blog just seems more declamatory and self-indulgent than I want it to be. I'm not keeping it bottled up inside, but keeping it clandestine.
I'm going to try and get my groove back; pinky swear. Right now, I'll just post some poetry (I may have posted this poem previously, but am too lazy to check the archives.). It's by Dorothy Parker, who, as we all know, is one of my favorites. It's called "Symptom Recital."
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
