Do You Ever Get Sick of Yourself?
Every now and then I catch my Super Ego being an asshole. I love attention. I seek it like plants seek the sun, growing around corners to find it. And every now and then my better self, that which is Divine in me, steps outside and takes a look and says, “Just listen to that shit she’s talking. See how every conversation leads right back to her??”
On our honeymoon Henry and I were in Rome sitting in this square before this old edifice I don’t remember the name of and somehow we ended up talking about Anne Frank’s diary and somehow I managed to relate my own shiksa, non-wartime, American experience with Anne’s. It seemed reasonable at the time.
Yet somehow Henry managed to pull himself from the thick, salubrious ties of his infatuation, nay adoration of me to say, “Why does every single thing have to do with you? Can’t Anne Frank’s Diary just be about Anne Frank?”
It was as if a pigeon from the square of San Marco had flown due south to find himself in Rome hovering above our heads and managing to shit directly into my mouth. Oh, rude awakening to my own ignominious self-infatuation.
Now excuse me while think of other things to write about myself. And here’s a few pictures of my life:
Do you ever get sick of yourself? What are the things about yourself you’d like to send to a landfill??