(no subject)
Is there something wrong with me in that I can't seem to relate to angst and dramatic introspection? Does the fact that I've pretty much seen myself as an okay person, and the fact that I regret nothing that I've done in my life, leave me unable to empathize well with my fellow man?
I ask, because tales of tragedy and eventual self-discovery, like this one, based on an old Sesame Street book, really don't strike a chord in me, other than the next to last page, which just elicits a "Well, duh."
Maybe I just have no soul, I dunno.
I ask, because tales of tragedy and eventual self-discovery, like this one, based on an old Sesame Street book, really don't strike a chord in me, other than the next to last page, which just elicits a "Well, duh."
Maybe I just have no soul, I dunno.