I wish I knew which problems to divert my attention to, because it's all so trivial. But there's so much of it that it's upsetting me beyond belief. I had a dream last night that I stood in a hilly garden, probably only a few square feet in area and I was either waiting to get inside a house, or watching a car. I can't decide which. Either way, it turned out to be the house of some girl whose mother went out with my dad, or something of the sort, and she used to joke about how she could've been me and how I could've been her, and thinking about that sort of fucks me over a little, even though we never would've existed had that come about. Ugh, paradox. My brain's gone to jelly. So, I've started reading again because it's a sad state of affairs when I've only read two books so far this year. One was James Frey's new one and one was The Perks of Being a Wallflower and I can't decide if they both disappointed me or not. I picked up Atlas Shrugged again for some unknown reason, like a few hundred pages will get me back into things. I don't have a logical bone in my body.