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 simplest 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.
Symptom Recital by Dorothy Parker
Monday, February 15, 2010 | By Cyan
3 comments:
This sounds about right and also sounds like the everyday human condition. Hope you are okay and feeling better than this. There's a lot to be said for being a dreamer.
Wow. The new look is very nice!
Thank you. I haven't been posting much, and I'm thinking that I need to rectify that. I thought a new "frock" might help.
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