When I read books like John Irving's A Widow for One Year
I get the feeling that I've been missing out, that somehow I
haven't grown up. I have yet to have a relationship as
complex or cold as the relationships he describes. I have yet
to accept the cynical reality of how people are and so I am
still bitter. I still think that there is an ideal to live up to,
places that you don't compromise. Maybe I have an
over-developed sense of entitlement. Maybe I think that I am
obligated to get more than I have any right to expect. Maybe
I look at the normal shifts and changes of relationships and
in people as being wrong because I don't change.
I get the feeling that I've been missing out, that somehow I haven't grown up. I have yet to have a relationship as
complex or cold as the relationships he describes. I have yet
to accept the cynical reality of how people are and so I am
still bitter. I still think that there is an ideal to live up to,
places that you don't compromise. Maybe I have an
over-developed sense of entitlement. Maybe I think that I am
obligated to get more than I have any right to expect. Maybe
I look at the normal shifts and changes of relationships and
in people as being wrong because I don't change.
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