I’ve been reading a lot of shitty books lately. Anything you can download for free on your iBooks or Kindle IS gonna be shit, but this is a special brand of shit.
50 Shades Fan-fiction full of “humongous, pulsing” cocks and breathless ‘OHHHH [insert character name/nickname]’
Unrealistic, simpering plots with really lame dialogue written by a teenager and names that sound like you just thought up a random ‘z’ or ‘v’ to throw in there because those are “exotic” letters or some shit. You do realize your characters probably went to public school in their fictional lives and had to spell that shit in kindergarten, don’t you?
Disorganized chapters jumping from character to 10 too many other characters with not even a MICROSCOPIC amount of George RR Martin’s talent.
I find myself feeling annoyed that I wasted my time, but I had to find out how it ENDED so I do the skim-reading thing and hit highlights.
Truly though…are ANY good books being written anymore? Why on earth did anyone ever allow self-publishing? Yes…put your stories in a blog. PRACTICE. But don’t offer it up to unsuspecting reading fanatics who really just want to lose themselves in a story line to escape real life for a second. We get really upset when it’s so bad that we are still very present in the real world. I can say “we” because I have a friend who agrees with me whole-heartedly on this subject. Someone needs to tell amazon and Apple to stop allowing this nonsense.
It’s been a while since I’ve written, but I haven’t had much to say. I have been operating under the ostrich method. I think about the things I want, and then I look at the obstacles and redirect my brain VERY quickly. Burying one’s head in the sand, aka keeping my nose to the every day grind and routine allows me to feel equally okay and useless at the same time. I don’t think I’m having an existential crisis, necessarily, but feeling very tiny and unimportant in the world is definitely the case. Why couldn’t I do something MEANINGFUL with my life?
Today, someone was telling us about a girl who traveled to India for the purpose of educating the people on autism and how they can help their children instead of hiding them away in shame. I looked at my friends and asked, “Why wasn’t I smarter back when I was planning out college and career? Why was the scope of my imagination limited to a verterinary degree I knew I wouldn’t pursue the minute I job-shadowed a vet for my senior project. I got woozy watching him perform a routine spay for fuck’s sake. Now, the only things I’m good at are giving very good relationship/dating/sex advice, data analysis stuff, and knowing a ton about animal behavior and plants. It’s too late to go back to school. I already have tons of student loan debt killing my credit score!”
I think, though, maybe a MEANINGFUL life isn’t defined by what other people have done with their lives. We like to compare and contrast, thanks to social media and the access to knowledge of random strangers’ lives that you never would have known if not for a click of a button. Could it be, to live a meaningful life, all you have to do is make a positive impact on someone else’s life? Possibly? Or am I telling myself that so I can keep going strong with my head in the sand?