So I finished The Stranger between today and yesterday, and it's got me all kinds of hecked up, like let me tell ya man, modernist folks sure wanna be something else real bad. Besides all of the thought points and reflective statements and nuggets of philosophy that will undoubtedly haunt me in my dreams ten years down the road, there rests the plain and simple fact that Meurseult is an asshole, and  now I feel like him. It's insupportable! I can't go around feeling like a remorseless asshole, now can I? That's just not done! It's quite a problem with literature, really, especially modern literature in the gritty neo-realism~ vein; every time I encounter a singularly unpleasant character, be it hero or brooding Byronic anti-hero, I end up feeling like them, and there's nothing I can do about it. I suppose that's props to the author, and demonstrates some excellent literary technique, and really, I am happy when I can get invested in a story long enough for that to happen. But like, why can it never happen with nice characters? I've spent questionable amounts of time reading Les Misérables and watching the musical and looking at art (and yes, reading fan fiction), and not once have I entered a mind-meld with any of the characters. Not even Marius, and we all know he's a dweeb of the first order! It's terrible. I feel that I would get quite a lot done if I had the revolutionary passion and fire of any of the Barricade Boys, or the grit and go-get em attitude of Javert. And don't even get me started on Valjean, man, I could probably bring about world peace or something. But no, sad indeed is my fate. I will forever doomed to share an empathy link with the denizens of the literary underworld, living out my days in pretentious melancholy and overblown monologues about the human condition. What a hand I've been dealt! This must say something about me, but I don't dare contemplate what.

On the topic of misery and the wretchedness of the human condition, may I just humbly report that life in my house is growing worse and worse every day? Every one of us is unhappy, some more than others, and this has all come home to roost on the shoulders of none other than yours truly. I feel a bit like Atlas, only I didn't even get to participate in the drama of rebelling against the elder gods, or anything like that. All I did was try to help. In that order, maybe Prometheus would be a better allegory? Shelley, help me. I need to be unbound.
Well, no, I don't, not really. Because I'm helping out, and that's the truth. I couldn't leave my poor defenseless family to bumble along by themselves, now could I? (According to our therapist, that's exactly what I'm supposed to do) It's terrible, though. These past few weeks, I've drunk vodka before going to church just to be able to handle it, and if that doesn't tell you something, I don't know what does. I would say that I'm excited to go back to school, only I don't want to leave my poor siblings all alone to deal with this.
Okay, Dad is throwing a fit and trying to demonstrate his control over all of us, so I must go and prepare dinner. Bye now!