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Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Symptom Recital

Guest Blogger Dept.: Sometimes mere 
words aren't enough to describe a 
complicated state of mind. In the hands 
of a master versifier, however, 
sometimes they are.


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.

-- Dorothy Parker 

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