I hate when I’m tricked into reading a whole book even when it repeatedly promises a bombshell and never delivers, even when the writing is so boring and clumsy and confusing that I think it must be me and I stay with it anyway like it was a marriage, even after limping through lame metaphors and confounding phrases like this one:
“He felt a sickening pain rinse through his body, as if he’d spilled something on his shirt; he wasn’t able to be able to be able.”
So after I hung on recently through the last page of a going-nowhere book and even consulted reviews to see if I was crazy, I renewed my vow to stop reading, to divorce that sheaf of words if I’m left unfulfilled and used up by page 100.
I don’t have time for stinkers anymore.
“He felt a sickening pain rinse through his body, as if he’d spilled something on his shirt; he wasn’t able to be able to be able.”
So after I hung on recently through the last page of a going-nowhere book and even consulted reviews to see if I was crazy, I renewed my vow to stop reading, to divorce that sheaf of words if I’m left unfulfilled and used up by page 100.
I don’t have time for stinkers anymore.
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