I am a self-inflicted disease

You see, the more and more I read salinger and Plath and all those guys, the more I become like this. Sad. No. I don't know. Disheartened. I don't know. And the more I read about them, the more I create my own issues and become cynical and then like this. I ever thought about TFC before, at least, the Catcher in the Rye. Or probably it was the combination of K and Franny and Zooey. But my theory, of many, is that the more you surround yourself with stuff like this, depression and apathy and disgust at nothing and disgust at yourself and, above all, art--the more you do this to yourself and become depressed and apathetic and disgusted and abstractly artistic and using words like 'abstract' when discussing Slaughterhouse-Five with your own mother in your own living room on your own nasty couch that got broken by your own relative who was so gargantuan that he literally broke the springs inside of it when he came over for thanksgiving at least a few years ago and now it's just rotting in there, in your own room where you're being all supercilious--Gatsby word--and abstract. And it makes me sick. Of myself. And that, my friends who are watching me grow into a beautiful and apathetic young woman, is a Holdenism, and that's a sign that I should just stop reading Salinger and plotting revenge on the deceased Charlie Chaplin for stealing Oona from my beloved Jerry. What has become of me?! Read some books, they said. It will be fun, they said. Well, I read some books. How fun.
I'm reading the Bell Jar and I'm very curious. Of her. Plath, I mean. Sylvia Plath. And I'm wondering, maybe my theory is wrong. I mean, it was, what? The early fifties?* People weren't exactly out-of-their-minds accepting of all this odd, impure sadness back then, were they? I mean, wasn't that the American dream era? So I suppose Plath didn't have that many influences to turn to and to absorb. But yet she wrote this.
But do you know what? She totally copied Salinger. I'm sorry! My opinion! But I'm completely enraptured by the Bell Jar, just so you know. It's just kind of girly for me. I don't know. I kind of like a man's perspective better. Holy mother of god, what did I just say? Dismiss, ignore, forgive me, it's too late at night for me to be reasonable.
And now my mom thinks she raised a sexist. Ah well. Sorry, Maman.
Anyway, so, maybe tomorrow i'll talk about the perks of being a hermit. How you can't create madness. Ludicrous is my mind.
Also, I blew off peer tutoring. I hate it! I despise teaching math! I know that's selfish of me, but so I am.
I been dazed and confused for so long it's not true...

*SparkNotes tells me it takes place, mostly, around 1953. In case you were wondering.