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| (In a breathless, gushy, ingratiating voice): "You like this! You REALLY like this!" |
I am not stoical by nature, by temperament, or by habit. To my everlasting exasperation, I find that I continue to crave the applause, admiration, and approval of my fellow man. Horrifically enough, I still have hope for the future. I still cross my fingers, hold my breath, and get butterflies in my stomach when I anticipate the possibility of obtaining some manner of temporal success or victory in life. When someone pays me a compliment, I find my inner Sally Field – "You like me; you really like me!!" – annoyingly asserting herself. (Yes, the part of me that gushes in such a manner is unquestionably a woman.)
I have long held hardy, unyielding stoicism in the highest regard, but Epictetus I ain't. I talk a good game, and perhaps even project a convincing image, but deep down – well, not really even that deep down – I still cannot resign myself to reality with manful resolve. I find myself more often raging against the inevitable than accepting it.
I have long held hardy, unyielding stoicism in the highest regard, but Epictetus I ain't. I talk a good game, and perhaps even project a convincing image, but deep down – well, not really even that deep down – I still cannot resign myself to reality with manful resolve. I find myself more often raging against the inevitable than accepting it.
