I hate to be sounding like how did a little more than an year ago. But I think I should just not have read "The Bell Jar". I can't help harping on the same old string of how completely lackluster and utterly mediocre my life is. I know this can be an era of way too many self-fulfilling prophecies! But I'll hold that thought. Just for now. Because I'm so full of this thought:
I knew I should be grateful to Mrs. Guinea, only I couldn’t feel a thing. If Mrs. Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn’t have made on scrap of difference to me, because where ever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street, café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.