I'm going to finish that book today on the drive to LA. It's a good thing, too. I'm really enjoying it, but I don't like the moods it puts me in sometimes. Reading Donna describe some of her situations make mine all the more obvious. I cry when she describes losing friends that she felt she could trust and talk openly to because she's making them uncomfortable hits too close to home. Reading someone trying to explain sensory issues turns up the volume of my own, and I'm tired of wearing earplugs in the van and being alone in my own world. Socially, it makes me frustrated that I have spent so much of my life, not as a self, but playing roles to live up to the expectations I think those around me have. And it makes me snappy, telling KC he doesn't really understand me, that no one does and no one will. It'll be interesting to get back into Kafka after this.