I wonder how many other twentysomethings out there are listening to surf music from the fifties and reading about starvation alone in their room. Oh? Just moi? Ça n'est pas grave!
I am okay with this, though. Mostly. I can't spread myself too thin (PUN!) right now. People aren't the problem. They never were, aside from when they molest me. The problem is that I shy away from myself. Or maybe the problem is that I am always looking for a problem? It would be completely zen of me to say that there is no problem, huh? There is no problem and there is also no-no problem. There is no duality and there is also no-no duality. Zen is fucking frustrating. I feel like a dog chasing my tail and my no-tail.
I start too many paragraphs with "I."
I gave up on picnics.
My patience for picnics is high, though. I love 'em.
It's all missed connections. That's both the problem and the answer.