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The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Me lately-- being 23-24 kinda sucks because of this struggle.
