I have just finished reading David Foster Wallace's Wiggle Room. After reading the short story, which was featured in The New Yorker, I suddenly felt that familiar feeling. The feeling that always makes me feel sick. Not sick sick, but sick in a whole different sense. One that is far worse than being sick sick. And everytime I feel this way, I do not want to do anything but be home, and spend the rest of the day on my bed. Doing nothing. Not even thinking.
But I am not really sure if it was the story that bugs me. Maybe I'm just broken hearted. No one can be so certain about it. Not even myself. I'm not even sure if I am in love.
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