Any book recommendations for someone who struggles with romantic obsession?

[Anonymous No.17317882]

I want to stop having pathetic fantasies about people I’ve never met/ barely interacted with. I need some books to snap me out of it.

[Anonymous No.17319014]

I read this book, and I don't even know why? The author's name probably sounded funny to me at the time...

[Anonymous No.17319162]

>>17319014
based moshfagh

[Anonymous No.17319171]

>>17317882
fuck jannies

[Anonymous No.17319174]

>>17317882
>I want to stop having pathetic fantasies about people I’ve never met/ barely interacted with
I wonder what causes this. I've been like this since high school
>see pretty girl in class/at work/in public
>interact with her 3 or 4 times total
>never see her again
>think about her for months

[Anonymous No.17319485]

>>17317882
The Lake by Kawabata and Gerturde by Hesse, off the top of my head.
I used to do this a lot too, the thing that snapped me out of it was actually having the object of my pathetic fantasies approach me and attempt to initiate a relationship with me.

[Anonymous No.17319520]

>>17319014
was it good? I just can't trust hypes for books no mo'

[Anonymous No.17319529]

>>17319485
>I used to do this a lot too, the thing that snapped me out of it was actually having the object of my pathetic fantasies approach me and attempt to initiate a relationship with me.
Did it work out

[Anonymous No.17319535]

>>17317882
You don't want to let go of that obsession anon, take that obsession and write it into poetry, creating poetic portraits of each woman who catches your eye.

[Anonymous No.17319699]

>>17319520
Yes desu I would recommend it

[Anonymous No.17319726]

>>17319529
No, we talked for a while but she was, of course, nothing like my fantasies, I just told her I wasn't interested in a relationship and we stayed casual acquaintances.
>>17319520
Not him but I quite enjoyed it, even though its rare i read anything written after 1970.

[Anonymous No.17319757]

>>17317882
Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis, Freud
Starting Strength, Rippetoe
How to Make Friends and Influence People, Carnegie
The Imitation of Christ, Thomas of Kempen

Good luck anon

[Anonymous No.17319818]

>>17317882
Sorry you're struggling with something like that anon

Pic related is a pretty good outline for how to handle romantic obsession. By the end of the novel, the protagonist is able to get over the subject of his obsession when he realizes his feelings were unrequited. He's able to basically move on and is ready to meet new people

[Anonymous No.17319829]

>>17319520
>>17319699
here are some passages i highlighted, bc i found them funny or sth

Moshfegh, Ottessa - Eileen (2015, Penguin Publishing Group, 9780698401624) - libgen.li.epub (Highlight: 4; Note: 0)

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▪ The movements of my bowels were a whole other story. They occurred irregularly—maybe once or twice a week, at most—and rarely without assistance. I’d gotten into the gross habit of gulping down a dozen or more laxative pills whenever I felt big and bloated, which was frequently. The closest bathroom was one floor down and I shared it with my father. Moving my bowels there never felt quite right. I worried that the smell would carry downstairs to the kitchen, or that my father would come knocking while I sat there on the toilet. Furthermore, I’d become dependent on those laxatives. Without them my movements were always pained and hard and took a good hour of clamping down and kneading my belly and pushing and praying. I often bled from the effort, digging my nails into my thighs, punching my stomach in frustration. With the laxatives, my movements were torrential, oceanic, as though all of my insides had melted and were now gushing out, a sludge that stank distinctly of chemicals and which, when it was all out, I half expected to breach the rim of the toilet bowl. In those cases I stood up to flush, dizzy and sweaty and cold, then lay down while the world seemed to revolve around me. Those were good times. Empty and spent and light as air, I lay at rest, silent, flying in circles, my heart dancing, my mind blank. In order to enjoy those moments I had to have complete privacy. So I used the toilet in the basement. My father must have assumed I was just doing the laundry down there. The basement was safe and private territory in my post-toilet reverie.

▪ Though I didn’t drink coffee—it made me dizzy—I walked to the corner where the coffee pot was because there was a mirror on the wall above it. Looking at my reflection really did soothe me, though I hated my face with a passion. Such is the life of the self-obsessed. The time I languished in the agony of not being beautiful was more than I care to admit even now.

▪ If I had slammed the front door hard on my way out, as I was tempted to, one of those icicles overhead would have surely cracked off. I imagined one plummeting through the hollow of my collarbone and stabbing me straight through the heart. Or, had I tilted my head back, perhaps it would have soared down my throat, scraping the vacuous center of my body—I liked to picture these things—and followed through to my guts, finally parting my nether regions like a glass dagger. That was how I imagined my anatomy back then, brain like tangled yarn, body like an empty vessel, private parts like some strange foreign country. But I was careful shutting the door, of course. I didn’t really want to die.

[Anonymous No.17319839]

>>17319829
▪ So that was something. You have to remember I was what you’d call a loser, a square, a ding-a-ling. I was a wet blanket. I had never gone out at night. Even in college, the dances were chaperoned, and among the girls in my dorm was the sense that to stray from the flock meant you were a floozy, a prostitute, a sinner, greedy, disgraceful, a threat to civilization, bad. Setting foot in a place like O’Hara’s would have been frowned upon. But if Rebecca was doing it, I would do it, too. What did I have to lose? I left work early to give myself time to go home and change. I figured I had to put on a dress, do my makeup, find my mother’s perfume. Getting dolled up was completely silly, of course. You can always tell something when a woman is overdressed—either she’s an outsider, or she’s insane.

▪ m sorry,” I repeated. I don’t know how sorry I really was. Getting sick like that had excited me. I can’t think of any other time just looking at something has made me vomit. I wanted to look at the photo again. There was something in it that I couldn’t fully make out.

[Brainlet No.17320130]

Diary of an Oxygen Thief might unironically be good for this