If I say it enough, will I believe it? My eyes are leaking even when I tell myself that I'm not sad. Life is good, Wendy.
I don't feel like a privilege. I feel like a fraud, a charlatan. I walk around with a confident strut, not letting people know how torn up I am inside. I'm usually laughing or making jokes to hide my pain. The truth is my life is mediocre at best. It makes me ponder if other happy-seeming people are perpetrating a fiction, too.
I got brave yesterday and made an appointment with a dermatologist to fix a few scars next week. Considering my previous ghastly luck doing that in my eyeball, I'm scared like a mofo. My former dermatologist went commercial and does only cosmetic stuff now, which would have been perfect, except she doesn't take any insurance. It's for rich women (and men) grasping to hang on to youth and beauty, at any price. Who can blame them? I want to be youthful until the day I die, whenever that may be. And not just acting like a 12-year-old. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment