You know how in Running with Scissors, Augusten Burroughs writes about how the Finch family would do "Bible Dips?" They'd ask the Bible a question, flip open to a random page, then try to find meaning in the word they landed on.   [Excerpt here. I'd say read the book, but there are better ones I'd recommend, and for heaven's sake do not even think about seeing the movie!]

[Anyway.]
I find myself bible-dipping in the unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath. Is that weird?

I ordered this book a few years ago after having read The Bell Jar, but could not for the life of me get through it, linearly.  I love me some Plath, but as you may know, even a simple passage about a day at the beach gets pretty intense. Regardless, I feel some sort of weird closeness to her more than anybody I've ever read. Although I don't have the time or concentration to just sit and read as much as I'd like, I pick it up daily and read a random paragraph or two.  Perhaps I do this less for direction and more for the connection, the less-alone feeling I get from it.  I guess I believe that whatever I pull from the journal is what I'm meant to read at that moment.

For example, just now: 

December 13, 1958
Blue shadows of trees looped on the sunwhite snow of the park in Lousyberg Square: the toga-Greek statue clutching his stone sheet in the front. Clear air. Bless Boston, my birthtown.  Give me the guts to begin again here my second quarter-century of life and live to the hilt.

[Amen.]