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.
去年夏天的一个晚上，我发现自己待在西雅图郊外一家康福特酒店(Comfort Inn)的房间里。那房间的气味仿佛二十年前有人在里面抽了一千根烟后就再也没有重新粉刷过。我坐在那里，写下了自己曾经经历过的所有最糟糕的事情。这并不是一件令人愉快的事，也不是我原本预料会做的事情，尽管也许我本该早就这么做了。
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