After all these years of being Eleanor Roosevelt, I have at length concluded that, finally, there is no viable alternative to Being Myself. Myself is the creature of whom my father always said:
Not only was he wrong, he also lied to the New York Times. In fact, you could say that the degree of my father’s lying rose to the pathological, but I ask you to remember that he only lied for his country. Or, at any rate, his government. Saving Private Ryan is, after all, an exercise in pro-war propaganda, which becomes readily apparent when we note that the most affecting scene concerning violence — in fact, the only truly affective one — occurs when the two soldiers pull up in front of the Ryan home, out there among amber waves of etc., and Mrs [no first name] Ryan, upon opening the front door and realizing what this visit portends, can no longer remain standing.
If I had an alternative to Being Myself, believe me, I would opt for it, because I cannot imagine anything scarier than Being Myself (neither could my father, and he was a war hero). Know that I undertake this course of being only as the very last and desperate resort, at a point in my life when I find myself bereft of any other thing to be.
I know that this decision will alienate some people — perhaps even most people — but I am, as yet, unwilling to die for the sake of those people’s good opinion of themselves.
Interested readers who have followed my case in the past may think of this Statement as a sequel to my one-hit wonder of yesteryear, An Account of a Family. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Slayer