| 8:52a |
I'm so irrational.
I had fantasies of living a life parallel to Anne Sexton’s or Sylvia Plath’s. I dreamed of a quiet, yet—somehow, somewhere—slightly off, childhood, and an absent father. I always thought that I’d go to some prestigious New England university like Barnard or Columbia or Wellesley, feeling a bit misplaced and terribly disillusioned among those red bricks, and so much wealth. I’d write beautiful, sad poetry, win a few competitions, get published in school newspapers and journals, and eventually graduate to the world of feigned smiles, an unhappy marriage, and art incomparable. I wanted that life. Perhaps, I am too often romantic and histrionic; I’m vaguely disappointed that I’m doomed to be happy and stable, and I fuck things up as much as possible. |