To the person who yesterday told me they didn't like my writng of 2004 because it was 'too self centred,'

Damn you to hades! In the space of a day I've (re)developed quite a complex. The Thunderbirds of Neurosis, who had previously been sitting around playing solitaire and reading Steven King novels, because for once in my miserable life I was giving them very little to do, are shunted aside by a huge, cigar chomping, visor-wearing editor, who glowers at me every time I set pen to paper or finger to keyboard.

'NO!' He screams in my ear. 'NO FIRST PERSON PRONOUN! You're writing about your cat there, your cat, you think people are interestd in that? GET OVER YOUR DAMNED SELF WOMAN!' Then he smacks me across the back of the head with The Elements of Style as I whimper pathetically in my own psychic corner.

Screw you, person! I belong to a generation of wisecracking, vaguely manic young women, who were once talkative young girls, and can be reduced to a twitching mass of self-loathing at the slightest suggestion that they are 'too much.' Too self centred, too neurotic, too wordy, too talkative.

If you'll excuse me, I'll be home in my jim jams watching 'Annie Hall' over and over again.