Just Writing Stuff Down

So I already posted a mini rant about this on my page, because my brain refused to keep quiet, but Insta captions are too tiny for everything I wanted to say. So here I am, writing the full blog because obviously I have more to say. I always have more to say. Today was supposed to be a normal day. Study psychology, pretend to be productive, maybe take notes, maybe highlight four lines and call myself a scholar. Instead, I ended up sitting with  The Outsider  in my hand and somehow 70 pages later I’m in the middle of an identity crisis and also strangely peaceful.  I bought this book thinking it might be one of those autobiography types where the author gives advice they don’t even follow. But this one doesn’t feel like that. It feels like Vir just sat down across from me and started talking. It’s like conversing about the outsider with the outsider as an outsider. Wild.  And maybe that’s why it hit so hard. Because I’ve always sort of been this person who doesn’t ful...