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Show have preferred, then, to have been wholly deformed, a freak, a circus sideshow. "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, this may be your last chance ever to see the world's only medical mermaid, the Fabulous Fishwoman." I might have found some solace in that, some consolation in the crowd's attention. Instead I simply felt cheated, pathetically imperfect, and at night I clawed in anger and frustration at my pink flesh. Naturally it made my condition worse. Dublonsky is a louse; I knew it all along. Yesterday was Wednesday, our last meeting before his vacation. At first he was all smiles and so was I. I had already decided to level with him. "I wish I was going with you," I said. "Of course," he said, "it's a nice part of the world to visit." "No, I mean I wish I was going with you." "I'll send you a postcard," he said. "How's the journal coming?" He was obviously determined not to hear me. It made me mad; I mean he's my psychiatrist and it's his job to listen to anything I have to say, right? Especially if it has to do with my emotions. "I've stopped writing in it," I lied. "That's too bad, Jenny." "Maybe," I said. "Why did you stop?" "It was boring." "You find yourself boring?" |
