All the trains of thought that Edna Pontellier goes through in her mind over the course of the book so far I have already had and had done with. She reminds me enough of myself to hate her. I'm having a bit of a hard time trying to keep my temper with her. Why is it I am having trouble disconnecting myself from the things I read lately? The merest wisp of emotion in a bit of writing is enough to bowl me over and leave me a bit out of breath. Bweh! Away with it all!
Even my daydreams are no consolation at all; they are somehow stale. My night dreams are unhappy and strange. I do not feel like writing letters to my friends though I have a good many to reply to at the moment. I keep picking at the skin around my thumbnail; it is bleeding now . . . I feel as if all of my distractions are to naught, but then what am I supposed to be thinking about if it is forever evasive of my conscious searching?
Perhaps I need to be cheered up or maybe have a glass of wine or a pot of coffee or a nap . . . I don't know . . .