It's one of those days when I hate my life. I really do hate it.
It seems that from day to day I either love my life or I hate my life. I never feel so-so about it. I like to believe that this is what makes me an extraordinary, wild-woman of passion. There is no joy on earth quite as joyous as mine and there is no angst quite as angstious as mine. I am like a bigger than life leading lady in a Shakespearean play with a story so compelling that it demands center stage.
I so pity flatliners, with their calm little lives, never high nor low, always steady in the middle. Yes, they have stability going for them, but, let's be honest. They're so damn dull. The only time I've ever been a flatliner was when I was on anti-depressants. It turned me into a zombie and it wasn't worth it.
As I think about it, most of the flatliners I know happen to be men. Now I'm wondering if my perceived passion is nothing more than hormones. Can everything about me that I think is unique and wonderful be reduced to chemicals?
Like I said... I hate my life.