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It’s a new pattern, a sneaky type pattern harbinged by deep, deep heartfelt sights and shorter and shorter looks into the mirror. This terrifies me, showering on the second day, berating myself for going out and about with yesterday’s hair and deliberately baggy clothes brushing my teeth before meals but not after, feeling sorry for myself because somebody was mean to me. Like, I’m the least popular kid in school AGAIN. That’s why I read so many autobiographies. I search for commonality. Recently found out that all the successful people got by on six, not eight, hours of sleep – ALL of them. Drat – well, I don’t have that going for me, at least not since I found Seroquel. Ablutions, the application of creams and unguents, brushing of teeth and hair, a pill for breathing, pills for digesting, pills to replenish nutrients that failed to digest, pills for hormones, the need to redress testosterone fueled grievances, the daily condescensions reduced to pill form. Every year brings a few more necessaries. I rebel. Skip a brushing. Fall into bed vowing to arise later for the ever-lengthening Pill Ritual. Gonna have to get up in a few hours anyway. Yep, not for sissies. There is always some slow healing sprain or cut or bump that requires dressing around it. Lying awkwardly for different reasons, but one side or the other is unusable. But yes, the famous, the self-made, the driven, they DO share this irrational world view – that maybe the haters are right. That everybody who communicates with me does so because they must. I search for traces of the empress or the editor, traits shared with investors and prime ministers. Were they too, othered? Their life stories advise me to stop trying to be popular, stop trying to be liked, stop desperately proving your worth to the people that matter least. Aha. That must be where I veered off the only path that leadeth not into obscurity.