I like brutal, makes me learn the most.
Complain about ANYTHING. I really like when people get picky about my writing and I hate it when they just say "Aw it's good
"
Thanks
I remember those many months ago, the exact scene: my slouchy figure padding past Dusty’s Shelves—a local bookstore. I recall considering, deliberating, and finally deciding to stop by. I remember walking toward the entrance doors, and then seeing the large, foggy display windows and halting. My hands had come up to cup around my eyes as I had tried to peer inside. I remember the expression on my face as I absorbed the content in front of my eyes and found that all the books in the display were sappy, teenage romance novels.
With a grimace, a huff, and then the sound of my shuffling feet rub against the slushy, icy cement sidewalk had echoed in my ears as I had quickly retreated.
As I am today, I see that I have just experienced a book that has sufficiently covered every aspect of cliché love stories I had absolutely despised those cold months ago.
You may ask, what the fuck is your problem, if you hate love stories so much quit reading them.
And that’s just it. You can’t escape your own life story: you’re forced to read it—every worn, torn page, edit the small errors as you go, and each day mold what will eventually be your own life’s ending.
That sappy novel I spoke of experiencing and despising before, was my own.
Complain about ANYTHING. I really like when people get picky about my writing and I hate it when they just say "Aw it's good
"Thanks
I remember those many months ago, the exact scene: my slouchy figure padding past Dusty’s Shelves—a local bookstore. I recall considering, deliberating, and finally deciding to stop by. I remember walking toward the entrance doors, and then seeing the large, foggy display windows and halting. My hands had come up to cup around my eyes as I had tried to peer inside. I remember the expression on my face as I absorbed the content in front of my eyes and found that all the books in the display were sappy, teenage romance novels.
With a grimace, a huff, and then the sound of my shuffling feet rub against the slushy, icy cement sidewalk had echoed in my ears as I had quickly retreated.
As I am today, I see that I have just experienced a book that has sufficiently covered every aspect of cliché love stories I had absolutely despised those cold months ago.
You may ask, what the fuck is your problem, if you hate love stories so much quit reading them.
And that’s just it. You can’t escape your own life story: you’re forced to read it—every worn, torn page, edit the small errors as you go, and each day mold what will eventually be your own life’s ending.
That sappy novel I spoke of experiencing and despising before, was my own.