There is something that very much irritates me about peoples' apparent fascination with dramatic death, like starving to death in an abandoned bus just a few miles from help in the Alaskan wilderness or being eaten by bears with your girlfriend. This kind of story is the National Bestselling type, but all those sweet memoirs written by non-journalists about someone special go unread all the time. ALL THE TIME. Basically, no one cares about you unless you went out in a fantastic, awful way. Why are stupid, perhaps slightly unbalanced people deserving of memoirs but normal people are not? Fuck, man. Get happy.
In other news, no news. Still feeling negative/stressed about school. People? Blech. I feel a crusade against sexism bubbling to my surface. Oy. Maybe I will go to Alaska, get away for a while, catch some sights, die. Whatever.