i am only two thirds of the way through the book upon writing this review sorry

I have never related to a character so intimately, and it is causing me to reflect.

I am the mouse, the underground man, poisioned by neurotic self-loathing and anxiety.

The part about the underground man's daydreams, the part where he describes his relationships with his coworkers, the self-aggrandizing/self-pitying - it feels like unconscious aspects of my personality are being brought to light - mental patterns of mine are being uprooted and disproven. If these feelings I'm having were already drawn out and analyzed by a guy who lived in a different continent 140 years ago, maybe they are not so unique and maybe I should get over myself.

The scene where the narrator is upset that he has to yield to the officer was directly recreated in my life literally 3 days ago on an excursion to Minneapolis in which I got way too faded and abruptly wandered away from the restaurant my friends were at. Two college athletes were walking towards me on the sidewalk, and due to their refusal to yield I bumped into one of them. I'm not going to stew about it for 2 years, but still... they thought nothing of it and I am writing about it on some fucking website. I was seething, thinking about how their families are probably wealthier than mine, how they are more attractive to woman than I am, how they're respected by their peers, and will have lucrative careers compared to the relative turbulence I am facing, etc, etc. (stupid, i know)

There have been at least two occasions where I've visited the Mall of America, and instead of shopping I actually just follow groups of people from a distance and pretend to shop as I analyze them. I follow them into Patagonia, and pretend to try on a hat, maybe I fiddle with my phone for a little bit. I hold up a jacket to my body in a mirror. They walk into Fjallraven, I wait a few minutes, follow them, pretend to look at a $250 backpack - repeat x5. Of course, I had no intentions of buying anything. I just wanted to know what force of nature allows them to exist in public as a laughing group, and for me to be relegated to their shadow. The 'bitter sweetness extracted from suffering' is an addictive substance. There are many many other instances of my mouseman-esque behavior that I can write about, and it would be funny, but it would only perpetuate my helpless self-image.

I am glad that I am reading this book right now. I've been stewing, daydreaming, and writing instead of doing anything real for the past 6 years or so. I am only half the age of the underground man, so I still have many years to redeem myself and live life with courage, god willing. I see my mistakes and am willing to make changes

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