One evening last summer, I found myself in a room at a Comfort Inn outside Seattle that smelled like it hadn’t been repainted since someone had smoked a thousand cigarettes in it 20 years ago, writing down all of the worst things that had ever happened to me. This was not a pleasant endeavour, nor was it one I had expected to have to undertake, although perhaps I should have done.
去年夏天的一個晚上，我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己待在西雅圖郊外一家康福特酒店(Comfort Inn)的房間里。那房間的氣味仿佛二十年前有人在里面抽了一千根煙后就再也沒有重新粉刷過。我坐在那里，寫下了自己曾經(jīng)經(jīng)歷過的所有最糟糕的事情。這并不是一件令人愉快的事，也不是我原本預(yù)料會做的事情，盡管也許我本該早就這么做了。
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