farkin book
It is Liz, and Liz is drunk. Yahoo. Actually this is a really bad thing and I will tell you why. I have to open my store tomorrow at 9:45, and as my optimal waking time is around 2pm, waking at 8:30ish is about the worst nightmare I can invision, I can't deny it. Thus, doing this hungover is about the same thing as being sat on by a particularly gassy rhinoceros. I really hope I spelled that right.
Anyways, I'm reading this book right now, it's called Jemima J. I'm not going to try to underline or italicize that title because I am drunk so fuck it, ya know? Anyways, here goes. By the way, I as of now reserve the right to use the word "anyways." I am a stickler for correct grammar, and anything that is incorrect gives me cramps and explosive diarrhea. However, "anyways" is not a word, and I find myself using it in my everyday conversation constantly, thus I feel the urgent need to use it in textual form. Deal with it. I do.
Anyways. I am reading that book. I don't like it. Granted, I'm sucked in and I have to finish it. It was originally about this fat girl who, despite her appearance, is a wonderful person, confident in her inner beauty and even physical beauty that is hidden in chub. However, this loveable main character goes through a personal change that over the course of 6 months and 4 pages goes from 300 to 120 pounds. Suddenly this blob of insecuritly in which each and every one of us females found some consolation became the slim, trim, fit, motivated, unbelievable fuckling gorgeous woman that we read MAGAZINES, not NOVELS, to envy. This fucking character is suddenly sought after by every man and goes through the "unexpected" trauma of being beautiful, single, and fucking thin. This woman was once sure of herself inside and unsure outside, but now is aware that she is beautiful and is so afraid that her "inner fat girl" will show that she forgets completely about all of the personal assets that she had pereviously prided herself in.
So fuck that, I say. I loved the fat girl, and now she is an anorexic, insecure skinny "CHICK" who I feel for in her naive ways, but hate. Seriously, don't dangle this sympathetic character in front of me only to take her away along with the insecurities that I have, over the past 150ish pages, grown to relate to.
Once, a long time ago, I opened a fortune cookie and it said something like this: "you are an artist with words, one day you will write a book." I kept it, and I have it somewhere still in my parents' house. When I do write that book, or article, or whatever comes to the attention of the "public" by virtue of yours truly, it will be for real. I pledge never to create a character that you love only to be jealous of. I will never present a scenario in which you can see yourself only to show something better in which you can't imagine you will ever be. Fuck that, as a writer you have a responsibility to keep your fantasies in check per the sincerity of your piece of writing. To create such an in-depth person as did this writer of Jemima J, only to take her away from me and make me feel unexpectedly inadequate is really unfair. I have Cosmo and Vogue and even fucking Seventeen magazine to do that. I picked up this book because I related to a person and you took that person and changed her into something that would be fictional even if she were standing in front of me.
Maybe I'm bitter. Maybe, then, I should be some kind of literary critic. I would rather love books the way that I do and give each auther the benefit of the doubt. By this, I mean that I trust an author to be straight with me. If you are going to scare me, or thrill me, or confuse me, TELL ME FIRST, so I know what I"m getting myself into. If you are going to make me cry, let me know if it will be in joy, sadness, envy, grief, or anger. I have a very fragile stability in terms of my emotions. Anyone that knows me is aware that a book, movie, or even television series can make me cry- not for a minute, but for an hour, or a day, of for years to come, and at every thought and mention of the aforementioned. Maybe I'm just too sensitive, but that's me. And maybe I just trust too much, but that is something that has been proven to me in the past and I can't change it, regardless.
I am one of those suckers that will almost always root for the main character in any story, and thus, I love Jemima J and will hope for the best for her and those she loves for the remainder of the novel. I AM happy for her when she is happy, but dammit, she became SO different from me and all of reality 55 pages ago and that makes me sad. I love Jemima but I've lost touch with her, never to get it back again.
I am, as I previously stated, drunk, and I need to go to bed to reduce the hangover that I will indubitably have (indubitably being a word created by Val, God bless her neesha-loving soul). Therefore, peace out, happy trails to you, and soon we will meet again.
Anyways, I'm reading this book right now, it's called Jemima J. I'm not going to try to underline or italicize that title because I am drunk so fuck it, ya know? Anyways, here goes. By the way, I as of now reserve the right to use the word "anyways." I am a stickler for correct grammar, and anything that is incorrect gives me cramps and explosive diarrhea. However, "anyways" is not a word, and I find myself using it in my everyday conversation constantly, thus I feel the urgent need to use it in textual form. Deal with it. I do.
Anyways. I am reading that book. I don't like it. Granted, I'm sucked in and I have to finish it. It was originally about this fat girl who, despite her appearance, is a wonderful person, confident in her inner beauty and even physical beauty that is hidden in chub. However, this loveable main character goes through a personal change that over the course of 6 months and 4 pages goes from 300 to 120 pounds. Suddenly this blob of insecuritly in which each and every one of us females found some consolation became the slim, trim, fit, motivated, unbelievable fuckling gorgeous woman that we read MAGAZINES, not NOVELS, to envy. This fucking character is suddenly sought after by every man and goes through the "unexpected" trauma of being beautiful, single, and fucking thin. This woman was once sure of herself inside and unsure outside, but now is aware that she is beautiful and is so afraid that her "inner fat girl" will show that she forgets completely about all of the personal assets that she had pereviously prided herself in.
So fuck that, I say. I loved the fat girl, and now she is an anorexic, insecure skinny "CHICK" who I feel for in her naive ways, but hate. Seriously, don't dangle this sympathetic character in front of me only to take her away along with the insecurities that I have, over the past 150ish pages, grown to relate to.
Once, a long time ago, I opened a fortune cookie and it said something like this: "you are an artist with words, one day you will write a book." I kept it, and I have it somewhere still in my parents' house. When I do write that book, or article, or whatever comes to the attention of the "public" by virtue of yours truly, it will be for real. I pledge never to create a character that you love only to be jealous of. I will never present a scenario in which you can see yourself only to show something better in which you can't imagine you will ever be. Fuck that, as a writer you have a responsibility to keep your fantasies in check per the sincerity of your piece of writing. To create such an in-depth person as did this writer of Jemima J, only to take her away from me and make me feel unexpectedly inadequate is really unfair. I have Cosmo and Vogue and even fucking Seventeen magazine to do that. I picked up this book because I related to a person and you took that person and changed her into something that would be fictional even if she were standing in front of me.
Maybe I'm bitter. Maybe, then, I should be some kind of literary critic. I would rather love books the way that I do and give each auther the benefit of the doubt. By this, I mean that I trust an author to be straight with me. If you are going to scare me, or thrill me, or confuse me, TELL ME FIRST, so I know what I"m getting myself into. If you are going to make me cry, let me know if it will be in joy, sadness, envy, grief, or anger. I have a very fragile stability in terms of my emotions. Anyone that knows me is aware that a book, movie, or even television series can make me cry- not for a minute, but for an hour, or a day, of for years to come, and at every thought and mention of the aforementioned. Maybe I'm just too sensitive, but that's me. And maybe I just trust too much, but that is something that has been proven to me in the past and I can't change it, regardless.
I am one of those suckers that will almost always root for the main character in any story, and thus, I love Jemima J and will hope for the best for her and those she loves for the remainder of the novel. I AM happy for her when she is happy, but dammit, she became SO different from me and all of reality 55 pages ago and that makes me sad. I love Jemima but I've lost touch with her, never to get it back again.
I am, as I previously stated, drunk, and I need to go to bed to reduce the hangover that I will indubitably have (indubitably being a word created by Val, God bless her neesha-loving soul). Therefore, peace out, happy trails to you, and soon we will meet again.