Thursday, May 12, 2005
 

It's Not Easy . . .

Being me. Because I'm a self-centered, unreliable, overeating, worrying and worrisome, fretting, repeat that self-centered and unreliable, failure, and it's all my own fault.

I read the book pictured below to a group of five-year-olds who were on a school field trip to the library last week. They loved it (and, for any parents with children of appropriate age who are, for whatever reason, reading my drivel, it's a cute book). I identified with it. The bunny (PJ FunnyBunny) keeps trying to be other animals because he thinks he doesn't like being a bunny (one complaint is that his ears are too big; the illustration for that page is just a huge pair of ears-- is a cigar just a cigar, or does anyone else see something Freudian here?). He has problems with all of them and, as is typical of a kid's book, reconciles with his bunny identity (not precisely the words used in the book, mind you), and returns home.

I don't like being me, whatever species of unpleasant creature I am. And I can't find anything I'd rather be. Our hero PJ returns home, to his own self, because he accepts himself and his life.

I, on the other hand, still think my ears are too big.

Given that I'm female, I'm not sure how that transfers into a Freudian concept.

Or maybe it's the Seroquel that's keeping me from analyzing that further.

Or maybe it's the Seroquel that made me post this in the first place.

At least you got to look at a cute book cover.

The end.


You said it.
c. elvisettey

Elvisette philosophized at 11:28 PM