I’m reading that one story about the guy who’s talking about seducing the naive hippie and then she starts telling him about how she got picked up by a serial killer while hitch-hiking and she circumvented getting deaded by finding compassion for this psycho rapist and it’s a really good story and everything but at the same time it’s like YOU KNOW WHAT THE LENGTH OF THIS STORY IS RAPING MY ATTENTION DEFICIT RIGHT NOW, WALLACE.
P.S. Yes, I always read David Foster Wallace (or sometimes Plath) when existential questions get overwhelming. It’s soothing.
