Please, make it stop.
I am drowning.
I clearly thought I was better than I am.
Every week, I go further under, and I try but I just can’t get out from beneath this weight.
For years, I imagined what it would be like to be the person I find myself today, and the sad fact is — that person is a fraud.
A pretender, someone who claimed to love reading, when really — all she wanted was a tote bag.
Okay, not just the tote bag. I wanted the apartment on the Upper West Side, the big sunglasses, the lox and bagels from Zabar’s. A short story now and then, or a restaurant review.
Not the crushing weight of constant analysis: political, cultural, moral. That’s right. I am not up to the task of being a subscriber to the New Yorker.
But I don’t have the heart to cancel my subscription.
Honey, remember how we always talked about moving to Northern California? Why don’t we just head out there, y’know — just…go?
Is it really worth it to do that change of address thing for the post office? I mean, how much mail do we really get anymore? We can probably find some nice people to sell the house to. This area is totally coming up. All kinds of people are looking for places to live around here, people like us. Ones who, y’know, read? Stuff like the New Yorker? That and the Greene County Examiner?
I feel better already. Just knowing I don’t have to chuckle knowingly at another cartoon. I mean, I could if I had to but — life is short and it’s kind of a relief knowing I’m not as clever as I thought I was.