Everyone I've been talking to makes me realize how far I have to go, how much I have to work if I really want to do anything with this writing thing. Turning 25 has maybe (maybe predictably) turned into a quarter-life crisis. Or another one. I think my whole life is a crisis.
My parents came to the Cantab. I'm not sure if they had a good time, but they didn't seem to scandalized. I didn't read because nothing I had seemed parent-appropriate, which makes me hate myself. I was just glad Jme didn't do the face-fucking poem in front of my dad.
My computer is nearly dead. It needs help.