Badly Drawn Boy

I’ve had more appointments with doctors this year than I’ve ever had in my life, and still there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t want to believe I’m a hypochondri-addict but maybe it’s just a truth I can’t confess to. After all, I’m a slave to compulsion and my mind is creative and stubborn enough. I’ve got all this strength in me, all this talent and ambition and device and circumstance, and yet my most developed ability is making excuses. It’s not improbable that this illness has been imagined so well that it’s taken over my health only as an excuse why I haven’t done more with my life. My body isn’t sick; I’m sick of myself.