(no subject)
It has recently come to my attention that I am a BITCH. I make really mean comments in people's livejournals, and I drop cigarette ash on their manuscripts "by accident," and sometimes I feed my children Spam. (Has that been invented yet?) But do you want to know the truth? I don't care. Maybe I am a bitch. But look at me -- I won the Pulitzer. I am totally famous. My husband will not sleep with me, my children are waging smear campaigns on my character as I speak, I keep hearing mumblings about this Middlebrook bitch; things are not so good, get the picture?
I think I am entitled to not care about other people's ridiculous feelings from time to time. I may just have to postpone my suicide (damn, and I had it all written out in my date book!) for a while, so that I can win another Pulitzer and finally get some RESPECT around here. And then I'll become truly famous, in that sleep embrace of death, sleep's night-watchman, or what have you.
I am in love with someone else. It's too much. Our correspondence often moves me.
I think I am entitled to not care about other people's ridiculous feelings from time to time. I may just have to postpone my suicide (damn, and I had it all written out in my date book!) for a while, so that I can win another Pulitzer and finally get some RESPECT around here. And then I'll become truly famous, in that sleep embrace of death, sleep's night-watchman, or what have you.
I am in love with someone else. It's too much. Our correspondence often moves me.