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I’m turning into someone I don’t like very much–someone that scares me a little, someone I don’t think I want to be. I’m turning into Little Edie.

I don’t mean I dislike Little Edie, per se. I do. Or did. I totally appreciate the pantyhose-headdress revolutionary-costume. And the raccoons in the wall? Charming. But the fact that Edie stayed at home–and I know she was doing so in part because of her mother, but still–the fact that she stayed home, that’s what bothers me. That’s what I see in myself–this kind of illness or paranoia or fixation about sticking to what you know. It’s the “Wow, I coulda had a V8” way of life. Wow, I coulda done something interesting, I coulda traveled, I coulda, coulda, coulda. Instead, I’m happy to sit on the sofa.

I don’t like that one bit. Drastic measures are warranted.