I do not like my state of mind. I'm bitter, querulous and unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands. I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night. I snoot at simple, earnest folk. I cannot take the gentlest joke. I find no peace in paint or type. My world is but a lot of tripe. I'm disillusioned and empty-breasted. For what I think, I'd be arrested. I am not sick, I am not well. My quondam dreams are shot to hell. My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more. I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse. I ponder on the narrow house. I shudder at the thought of men.. and to make matters worse, I'm due to fall in love again.