It might be easier. But it wouldn’t be better.
Furiously Happy Jenny Lawson
忘记为什么会读这本书了。之前看了60%左右，年底了要清一下没看完的书，这本优先。
作者如此幽默，我想读原版会不会更有意思一点，因为很多翻译版本确实不太靠谱。就去找了原版，配合有声书，读完了后半部分。前面的部分果然都忘得差不多了。摘录了一些英文部分。
作者虽然患有多种精神疾病，但是却非常幽默又有趣，轻描淡写苦痛的生活，从苦难中开出花朵。不要给自己设限，人生无尽可能。即使痛着，也能微笑。
摘录：
（这一篇很有意思⬇️）
I am going to die. Eventually. “So,” said my psychiatrist, “what’s going on today?” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to die.” “Oh,” she replied, eyes opening in surprise. “I mean… eventually,” I added. Her eyes narrowed. “Right. So, everything is normal.” “It’s not normal. I’m dying. You’re dying. WE’RE ALL DYING.” She crossed her legs. “That’s a normal phase of life.” “Dying? No. Dying is like the opposite of life.” I crossed my arms. “Aren’t you a medical doctor? Because I think you should know that.” “No,” she replied. “I meant that thinking about your mortality is a normal phase of life.” “I can’t trust anything you say right now. You just found out you’re dying and you’re obviously in shock.” She raised an eyebrow. “I already knew I was dying.” “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” “No,” she said. “I’m not dying now. I’m just the regular kind of dying. It’s called ‘aging.’ And that’s a good thing. Each day is another chance to enjoy life.” “It’s also another chance to get kidnapped by a serial killer,” I countered. “Or to end up at the bottom of a well. Or both. That’s probably where serial killers dump their victims. Which is probably why we don’t use wells anymore.” “Hmm,” she replied absently, writing something on her notepad. “What about wishing wells?” “You know, I always assumed that the dead girls in the wells were the ones giving out the wishes. And that’s why my wishes never came true. Because dead girls don’t give wishes.” “Huh.” “You know,” I said, “I feel a lot of silence coming from you and it’s feeling a lot like judgment.” She put down her pen. “Okay. Is this fear of death a real thing that we need to discuss, or…?” “Not really. Just coming up with small talk. Which is sort of weird because I’m paying you to talk to me and yet I’m the one having to come up with topics of conversation.” She paused. “Do you want me to come up with the conversation?” “I’m just saying, you could try a little harder.” “You seem a little defensive today. What’s going on with you?” she asked. “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “The entire time I was driving here I was thinking about what I wanted to talk about today and for once I’m totally doing okay, and now I don’t know how to entertain you for the next forty minutes.” She glanced at the clock. “Thirty minutes, actually.” “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask you… why do therapy hours only last fifty minutes? Because that’s sort of fucked up. What if I tried to pay you with a five-dollar bill and I told you it was a ‘therapy six-dollar bill’? That’s not a thing anywhere other than therapy and I think that’s probably because you guys know you’re dealing with crazy people so you’re pretty sure you can get away with it.” She tilted her head to one side. “Is this really what you want to talk about or are you just being defensive again?” “I’m being defensive.” I sighed. “Damn, you are good.” “Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s my job. You don’t have anything you want to talk about?” “Okay. Here’s one. Every time I walk into a public bathroom I do it cautiously and tentatively because I’m always convinced there will be a dead body in the toilet stall. Every. Single. Time.” “Why do you think that is?” “No idea. I almost never find dead bodies but I do find a lot of potential dead bodies. Those are the black plastic trash sacks abandoned on the side of the road. I always want to open them because I’m convinced there might be a body in there, but then I don’t because I’m not responsible enough to take care of a dead body. I mean, like, to call the police and have them take care of it. Not like ‘Here’s your new goldfish so take care of it.’ You don’t have to take care of dead bodies. That’s one of the few positives about them. If you don’t feed a dead body it doesn’t look at you accusingly, and it never gets deader. In fact, dead bodies make much better pets than goldfish because someone has already killed them for you so there’s not as much potential guilt attached.” My doctor lifted her pencil as if wondering where to start. I continued, trying to explain myself. “I’m always afraid that once I find the first dead body it’ll start a weird streak because I’ll never stop opening garbage bags after thefirst one pays off and eventually the police will finger me as a suspect. That’s probably why so many people distrust the police. Because they’d rather assume you were a murderer than think you were just really lucky at finding bodies.” My doctor removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Well… it’s an unusual way of looking at it but really, a phobia of dead bodies is very common.” “Oh, I don’t have a phobia of dead bodies,” I countered. “‘Phobia’ implies an unreasonable fear and this fear is perfectly reasonable. You are supposed to be afraid of dead bodies. It’s what keeps you from hanging out with them and getting cholera. “Of course,” I admitted, “‘fear of finding dead bodies on toilets and in bags’ is maybe a more uncommon variant, but people find dead bodies everywhere. A DJ friend of mine once went to the radio station at midnight because there was dead air and she found her boss dead of a heart attack on the soundboard. She had to DJ over his dead body while waiting for the police to arrive, which her coworkers at the radio station found brave and dedicated, but which I thought was a bit bizarre and unsettling. Just put on a long record and go hide in a less corpsey room, lady. If anything, she’s the weird one. Not me.” “Anything else?” “Whenever I go to wash my hands, if the automatic sink doesn’t work I immediately assume that I’ve died in the bathroom stall and that it’s my ghost trying to wash my hands.” “Huh.” “Because the automatic sensors won’t work since I’m a ghost,” I added. “Yeah, I got that.” “Also, I’m really, really good at peeing… like almost too good. It’s like a superpower.” She looked at me critically. “Is this an issue?” “Yes. Because I’m such a fast pee-er that I always have to stand inside the bathroom and count to twenty so that the people outside don’t think that I’m skipping washing my hands.” I waited for her expression to change to impressed but it seemed like I’d be waiting a long time. “Also, I can’t stop pronouncing the ‘p’ in ‘hamster.’” “There is no ‘p’ in ‘hamster.’” “Well, obviously you’ve never squeezed one hard enough. There’s tons of pee in them.” She stared at me. “That was a joke,” I explained. “Not a very good one,” I admitted. “But seriously, it should be spelled ‘hampster.’ We’re all saying it that way anyway.” “So,” she asked, “do you think you’re finished with therapy?” “Every time I get a pimple I worry that it’s the beginning of a new nipple.” She stared at me in silence. “And that was not the answer to your question. I’m sorry. I jumped ahead.” “To tell me about your nipples?” she asked calmly. “And then I assume the nipple will turn into a new person and I’ll be a late-blooming conjoined twin. This is what it’s like in my mind pretty much ALL THE TIME.” “So, I’ll pencil you in for next week?” “Yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll clear my whole day.”
Frankly, I think parents have very little input in creating the positive aspects of their children’s personalities. My sister and I were raised in the exact same way and we could not be more different. This is not to say that you can’t fuck up a kid by being an asshole, because children are small sponges and will mimic all of your worst behaviors at the least opportune time. But I believe that usually your kids’ positive qualities come less from your making them awesome and more from just not intentionally squashing the random things they’re inherently born with that make them awesome.
Last month, as Victor drove me home so I could rest, I told him that sometimes I felt like his life would be easier without me. He paused a moment in thought and then said, “It might be easier. But it wouldn’t be better.”
（Victor才是幕后那个大功臣。没有你会容易很多，但不会更好。）
Even if you do enroll your kid in one or two lessons or clubs you’re always hearing about some other, better, and more exclusive club where they learn to twirl batons while reciting Mandarin poetry. You immediately worry that if you don’t enroll your child there they will end up homeless or legless or be turned into carpet or something. Whatever it is, it must be awful, because almost all of the parents I know seem to be competing to see how much shit they can pack into their child’s life.
（哈哈哈，精妙。）
There will be moments when you have to be a grown-up. Those moments are tricks. Do not fall for them.
（真的吗？）
I wish someone had told me this simple but confusing truth: Even when everything’s going your way you can still be sad. Or anxious. Or uncomfortably numb. Because you can’t always control your brain or your emotions even when things are perfect.
（停止苛责自己，承认自己的情绪。）
Victor blamed my “imagined” swan persecution on a manifestation of imposter syndrome, a very real problem I struggle with. Basically, it’s when you’re convinced that any success you have is due to luck and that at any moment everyone will realize that you are a tremendous loser and that you aren’t as cool as they thought you were. It’s disconcerting because most people think I’m insane at best, so I think that means that I’m convinced that I’m not even successful enough at being crazy, which is sort of the definition of being crazy. Regardless, I’m pretty sure these swans were onto me.