This really disturbed me-and for bizarre, quasi-masochistic reasons that I don't even fully understand. It just seemed to hit that awful place where breathless romantic ambition and abysmal sadness converge. I suppose that it'd be easy to dismiss it as the bitter memoir of a stupid thirty-something who cast her pearls at swine while dismissing "clearly better" suitors like, of course, me. But in a world increasingly informed by pop-psychology palaver from Today Show shitheads telling you how uncool it is to be bitter, it's refreshing to see someone tell the truth: Yes, she's bitter. Yes, it's a pathetic story. Yes, it hurts like hell. And no, she didn't save any face. And really, so fucking what? Bitterness is the natural residue of unrealized hopes. And contrary to our ostensible move-on ethos, bitterness is what often remains after 30-and not for the unfortunate few like this woman but for most of us. Most.
On Negroni Season
This really disturbed me-and for bizarre, quasi-masochistic reasons that I don't even fully understand. It just seemed to hit that awful place where breathless romantic ambition and abysmal sadness converge. I suppose that it'd be easy to dismiss it as the bitter memoir of a stupid thirty-something who cast her pearls at swine while dismissing "clearly better" suitors like, of course, me. But in a world increasingly informed by pop-psychology palaver from Today Show shitheads telling you how uncool it is to be bitter, it's refreshing to see someone tell the truth: Yes, she's bitter. Yes, it's a pathetic story. Yes, it hurts like hell. And no, she didn't save any face. And really, so fucking what? Bitterness is the natural residue of unrealized hopes. And contrary to our ostensible move-on ethos, bitterness is what often remains after 30-and not for the unfortunate few like this woman but for most of us. Most.