(12-18 July 1992) after John Milton
When I remember how innocent I used to be, stubbornly unaware of the evidence of my incompetence, ignorant of what to wear or what to say, I’m both embarrassed and proud—embarrassed for wanting what I couldn’t ask for— proud of being different, true to myself. Not knowing the true value of clichés, cliques, sports cars, or alcoholic abandon, I never measured up, and missed my cues with every girl I wanted to impress. But that was in high school and college. The moral?—It doesn’t really matter. I’m happy now, as much as I expect.