Whenever I'm reading a novel featuring a sad-sack main character--y'know, a loser, someone pathetic, someone who just can't stop fucking up--I always find myself dwelling on all the ways I'm like him.
It's yet another example of how far up my own ass I'm capable of crawling and I hate it.
I'm nothing like these characters, really. For example: Unlike Miles from Rex Pickett's Sideways, I haven't fucked up my relationship, I have never resorted to stealing money from my mother and I would have the moral courage to flat-out refuse to be involved with a friend's infidelities.
Plus, I know shit about wine.
But somehow, my stupid brain manages to latch onto some detail and so, instead of just enjoying the novel, I'm depressing myself. This is why I should just stick to newspapers. Even on my worst day, there's not way I'd end up comparing myself to, say, Robert Mugabe.
