In the morning, I went to my grandmother. It was very nice. My grandmother is a really modern person for her age and she is always in a sunny mood. Now she is helping me with my thesis, and I am grateful.
After that, I went to the library.
When I was walking through the library I felt like killing someone random.
Especially when I read a book I thought might be helpful. The titel was something about emotion regulation. But, when I read it, I discovered it was only meant for poor sad people who came from dysfunctional families. The book was not meant for me; even worse, it indirectly told me that I had nothing to complain about, am a loser because I am not able to stay happy and it's basically all my fault in comparison to the people the book was really meant for. I was enraged and wanted to rip the book apart, but I got a better idea. I wrote down my feelings on the first page, sarcastically wishing the poor sad people from dysfunctional families much fun with reading the book. I know it is childish, but I don't care. Because it felt so powerful. Like I took revenge on the author for making my life more miserable. And the best thing is that nobody said anything about it. Hahaha
I think I found a new hobby! Libraries in my town with whiny useless books about psychology beware
