I’m not sure about title-cursing rules, otherwise the title would be “Fuck This Book.”
I don’t even know where to start, this stupid childish book brought out such a visceral rage in me.
Reviews on Amazon and Goodreads suggest that some people didn’t abhor it. Some people loved it. This makes me think about statistics and probability – does the number of five star ratings mean that there are people in my life who do or would like this dumpster fire of a “book”? (The quotation marks are warranted.) Or does the type of person who would like this tend to find it and then review it, explaining the high ratings?
Who are these people?
It’s a book of mostly shitty pictures, the kind you would expect from some douchebag on Instagram who thinks he’s really ~*~artsy~*~. Raindrops on a car window. Blurred city streets.
Paired with these gifts to humanity – let me pause while I retrieved my eyeballs, I just rolled them so hard they fell out – are “profound” sentences. Insipid, pseudo-deep lines like “If you thought that was our last chance, you were wrong. It was our last.”
That’s it. Generic, naval-gazing, bullshit from some guy who probably wears a fedora and calls himself an old soul, with titles even if they are only one line long so the title and “poem” are basically the same length, paired with pictures that make me cringe because they remind me of something I would’ve taken when I was 14, which is probably the best audience for this book.
I want to light it on fire. I’m not rating it because I refuse to give it a star. It gets zero stars.