you are bored, lonely, et al, so you go on the Internet in search of company; negotiate with self that it’s okay to be a voyeur for a little while; let other people do the same to you in return. But then the whole thing becomes too unreal, too alienating, too overwhelming. So you go back to books; tell yourself that intellectual pursuits need to be prioritised, and that books don’t disappoint like people. Houellebecq seems be too nihilistic for your mood so maybe Tao Lin. But Tao Lin is just as bleak, and worse still, rambles on. Murakami too solemn; yet Melissa Bank too whimsy. So Houellebecq you go back to, and in the first handful of pages –as you expected– he reaffirms your deep-rooted belief of how stale life really can be. But rather than acting as some wise mentor who guides you out of your somewhat unhealthy way of being/thinking, he at once enables you like the perfect soundboard and belittles you by telling you how universal (yet unsolvable) the problem is.
In despair, you put down the book and go back onto the Internet. And so begins the vicious cycle known as I’ve Got A Lot of Free Time Now, What Do I Now Do With My Life.