They grow up, and heaven save us
from sullen, moody-broody, ultra-sensitive
teen-age girls who suffer exquisite pains
of self-pity because their anguished selves
are so perfectly underestimated, under
imagined, under-represented and
misunderstood, as egoistic, self-absorbed
insensitivity. It is satisfyingly heart-breaking
to the self-pitying drama queen to persuade
herself that her angst, her quarrel with the
unfairness of it all - life and expectations
of conformity and moronic social mores and
anticipations and aspirational creative
achievement constraining pleasure and
leisure all too much to bear, coupled with
parental complaints of non-compliance and
the stress of school assignments transforming
simple existence into a miserable trial,
compounded immeasurably by peer cliques
and clashes. Life (sigh), is a distracted
bowl of uncompromising disappointment.
Is that all there is? Expectations turned to
ashes? Awaiting the ego-mollifying
observation: "You're divinely perfect."
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