a question I know I've returned to frequently, especially as regarding the illness- fabulist topic. I watched Scamanda this week, which I thought I'd already seen, because I confused her with the faker on-staff with "Grey's Anatomy"(Which I'm not exactly a fan of, but I watched the reruns over lunch one summer and enjoyed them enough to be a bit jealous of both that chance, but even more than the writer's room dream, which hasn't quite faded as much as my childhood fantasy of coming back as a macaw.) But also, I'd love to have my life experience respected, instead of feeling like I'd better invent a seated version of stuff other girls get.
Maybe I'm kind of a bad person, I think, if not the same kind of bad person that gets vaguely aroused during "Killer Couples" because, though I do know that, for every one of these scammy gals, there are probably a hundred families struggling and white-knuckling and losing out. Volunteer coordinators tearing their hair out because nobody thinks cancer patients are real anymore.
What I think is that pity feels more like being spit on than a warm bath to luxuriate in.I wonder, "Am I bad at this?" Even though I'm not dying and my mother would slap the color out of my cheeks if I leaned in for the handouts the way these people seem to do.
Sometimes, when I sign my own paperwork for my permanent condition, I have the tiniest urge to look over my shoulder as if this isn't real. (It may not be fatal, but it's WAY real.
