Fiction. I always finish books, ALWAYS, no matter how much I dislike them, I even finished Out Stealing Horses, and I would rather give myself 500 paper cuts at one time and then squeeze lemon juice into the freshly wounded skin than read a word of that one ever again. But, I just cannot do it. I gave it about 50 pages and up to her time in Italy for a bit (blathering on and on about gorgeous brown eyes and gelato flavors), and I just cannot bring myself to read one more word.
Maybe it is because I am hitting that point where I am beginning to realize that I no longer have the patience nor the time for moronic and horrible writers. I am no longer forced to finish things I hate, I chose this silly thing for my free time, to relax; it is not for a class in graduate school, where and when I had no choice in the matter of assigned texts. I simply refuse to squander my limited free time for the sole reason of saying "I finished this thing" before declaring that it was indeed a waste of my time. I cannot read one more silly, idiotic, and vapid word by this woman. It is a miracle she found somebody to pay her for this content-less drivel about her privileged life, promiscuous nonsense, and absolutely zero insight about anything at all. I thought the title sounded promising and interesting, but I should have known better when I read the reviews. So, I am walking away, and never touching this worthless nonsense again.
And so it goes...
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