Marilyn Monroe used to be plagued with misfortune on set. Arriving tardy. Missing her cues. Hiding away in her hotel room with her barbiturates, her champagne, and her pearls.
She raised the ire of all those around her, knotting all their frustrations, all while self-sabotaging and being her own worst enemy.
I imagine that’s how those around me must feel. How much potential I have and how I’ve yet to properly harness it.
When failure is inevitably on the horizon, I count myself out before “they” can. I suppose I need to work on my confidence. I suppose so.
I’ve encountered the ire of those around me, their frustrations, my own self-loathing. Good thing I have therapy tomorrow and plenty of cigarettes. The worst is when they want me to talk about it.
There’s a gentleman here who was able to be so forthright about his frustrations this morning, he said all the things I wanted to say but didn’t know how to elucidate into verbs.
My father called my twice this morning.
Perhaps I’ll have leftover fajitas for lunch.
Nightingale 
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