![]() ![]() ![]() This book would have hurt me even more if I'd read it ten years ago, when I "should" have. But it's also lies, lies in the truest sense, lies that take away from the healthy, beautiful, cotton-and-denim reality. I even recognize that, for what it is, it's lovely writing. Why don't men with angel wings taped to their backs carry ME from the night ocean? Why don't *I* fuck rock stars and call great clouds of blackbirds to flock my house? Why am I so BORING? WHY IS LIFE SO BORING? I recognize the desire for escapist literature, and I recognize I might have been a little beyond crazy when I read this book. ![]() As an impressionable and frequently overly-sensitive person, it threw me into a three day funk. Its magical realism does not use its quirks to highlight truer-truths, but to obscure basic facts of living. Reading this, I LONGED to be those girls. It takes the most emotionally screwed up girls, the ones who cover themselves with make-up and cut themselves and stop eating and run away from home and screw everyone in their path, and turns them into objects of incredible romance. ![]()
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