Frightful

I heard about a poem I must read in this season’s issue of The Paris Review, so I went out and bought it, playing hooky from work.

I don’t know why I’m so damned frightened about this new job.

My Simone de Beauvoir came in the mail and I bought a copy of Nana by Emile Zola.

The Paris Review is so good and it feels so decadent. My heart aches with the decadence of coveting so much.

It would be nice to know if this was all just a bad cause of Imposter Syndrome.