What’s worse than knowing your life is broken and won’t be fixed? I’ll tell you.
Today I was at D’s and ran into a friend who just got out of an involuntary 72-hour hold at a mental hospital due to a suicide attempt, and who needs to restart her entire life over under appalling conditions.
And then I ran into a friend I have a useless crush on. And for the rest of the day all I could think about was how unfortunate I was in my desperately impossible desires for unreachable partners, and how pathetic a creature I was, and how I would never be happy. Etc., etc., poor little me.
God knows my life problems aren’t small, and I have a right to some self pity, especially considering the near-perfect failure right of any attempt I’ve had to find a woman who likes me.
BUT FOR CHRISSAKES how could I be so self-absorbed to make that so important in the face of someone else’s disastrous miserable mess?
If there was a “What Shakespeare character are you?” quiz I think I would be Bottom. Certainly not worthy of Hamlet status.