Strip me of these Jewish Chains

After watching the fantasic "Annie Hall" last night, I came to the conclusion that a
bulk of my writing and possibly parts of my own "superJewish" personality is inextricably linked to and rooted from 95 minutes of reel tape. I feel like I'm either unconsciously plagiarizing Woody Allen's genius work of unrelenting self-loathing at worst, or at best, and in all honesty, hopefully in all truth, I exist merely as a tiny chain in a vast, underground Jewish artistic legacy of guilt, moroseness, and kvetching.

What lightens me up is the fact we're different. If you haven't seen the film, here's the rundown: Jewish New Yorker comedian discusses his failure with women, in particular one Annie Hall (Diane Keaton) antagonizing others for Anti-Semitism, drugs, vanity, and a less than perfect libido. All while Allen never forgets to keep hating himself more than anything else.

That's where we differ. Yes, I have problems. We all do. Though my self-esteem and ego hasn't been that torn to pieces like Allen's character in the film, or his in real life. I'm a happy Jew. More than that, I'm a happy person. I think I'd like to meet me, if I wasn't me. There's a thought, and it's not rhetorical. If you weren't you, would you actually like to meet you?
I wonder what I'd find fault in. I criticize too much (though only with certain people), fall in love too fast (though learning how not too), think about price before pleasure (I'm talking about stuff, not whores. Though I think if I ever seriously considered getting farshnukes with a hooker, price would definitely affect my decision and my pick of the lot), and I procrastinate. But hey, penicillin was discovered because Salk decided to quit work early and get some beers. By mistake he left mold to culture back at the lab.

At least that's my version.