This book is pissing me off more than it should. I’m supposed to be a calm, cool and collected guy. This book is unraveling all of that carefully wrapped patience and control and turning them into spaghetti.
So we begin with Ever telling us that Damen was apparently a model.
W. H. A. T.
What the hell would a model be doing in a school as supposedly sucky as Ever’s described? Damen’s been made out as a man-statue-work of art-hybrid thing, and I’m pretty sure those kinds of people don’t go to crummy schools like this one. But then again, Noël hasn’t been too gracious in her descriptions of settings. Seriously. All those adjectives are just lined up for Damen’s scenes. It’s ridiculous.
When I get to art, I beeline for the supply closet, grab all my stuff, and head for my easel, refusing to react when I notice how Damen is set up right next to mine.
Is she still dreaming? This is really confusing to read. Because in the last chapter, we somehow managed to go from her classroom to the lunchroom, and now we’re in art class. What the fuck is going on here? Shouldn’t there at least be a notice that we’re transitioning through different scenes? Noël just uses a paragraph break and begins writing. It’s hurting my brain to figure this shit out, guys.
trying not to gawk at his masterpiece in the making-a seriously perfect rendition of Picasso’s Woman with Yellow Hair.
My Stu-meter just broke. Anybody have a spare? I’m in need of one.
Then just to torture myself even further, I take another glance at his effortless, curving brushstrokes, and add it to the never-ending list of things he’s amazingly good at.
I want to curl up in a corner and cry, wondering why in the world a waste of time like this was published. ALL THOSE POOR TREES. CUT DOWN. FOR WHAT?! THIS SHIT?! REALLY?! If you don’t understand my frustration, let me lay it out for you:
>Writing a character in literature is not that difficult. All it requires is a basic knowledge of how a person is supposed to work, and some common sense. This book has neither.
>Your characters have to be flawed. They have to. Otherwise there’s no point writing a character, since it’s not a character anymore.
>NEVER-ENDING LIST OF THINGS HE’S AMAZINGLY GOOD AT?! NOËL, DID YOU EVEN FUCKING READ YOUR OWN WRITING?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY THE HELL DID YOU THINK THAT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA GETTING THIS PUBLISHED?!
Seriously, like in English, he can answer all of Mr. Robins’s questions, which is kind of weird since he only had one night to skim all three hundred and some odd pages of Wuthering Heights.
Are we still dreaming? Seriously, Ever’s just rambling on about how amazing Damen is, something that I really couldn’t give a fuck about. I searched everywhere guys, even my laundry basket. I still couldn’t find a single fuck to give about what she’s saying. It’s so boring! Noël starts to write an interesting scene about how Ever hears Riley-except-not-Riley in her room and then hears Damen’s voice. But then she says that she’s dreaming and uses it as an excuse to write a couple hundred words of complete bullshit about this character that I despise. And it’s not even well written bullshit, which I can sometimes tolerate. It’s pseudo-teenagespeak bullshit, which is the most irritating form of writing to crop up in recent years.
He’s ambidextrous too,
Somebody better hand me a shotgun real quick, because I am taking this motherfucker down.
“Just like Pablo himself. Wonderful!” Ms. Machado says, smoothing her long glossy braid as she stares at his canvas, her aura vibrating a beautiful cobalt blue, as her mind performs cartwheels and somersaults, jumping in glee, racing through her mental roster of talented former students, realizing she’s never had one with such innate, natural ability-until now.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You have got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME.
Let me cut this shit short, shall I? Ever drops her brush and then Damen reaches out to touch the scar on her forehead, the one that he should have no idea about but we know he does since this is a bad fucking book and every plot “twist” is more predictable than the next. The end. See, was it that difficult, Noël? No. It wasn’t.
THAT WAS LITERALLY ALL THAT HAPPENED IN THE FUCKING CHAPTER. NOTHING ELSE. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, SUETHOR.