And here I am again, back with another chapter of this drivel. You guys are enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re enjoying my pain and suffering! Come on, say something, guys! I feel like I’m all alone, trapped in this void of shitty writing.
So anyway, let’s continue with the book.
Ever’s really surprised at the sudden appearance of Ava, the psychic.
Was I so wrapped up in my own world that I forgot to poke around in Sabine’s?
Our heroine, ladies and gentlemen. She’ll read your mind faster than you can bitchslap her across the face to stop her from doing so.
“You should get in line before it gets any longer,” Sabine says, her shoulder pressed against Frankenstein, who, with or without the creepy mask, is not the cute guy who works in her building.
He’s also not the big, successful investment banker he pretends to be. In fact, he still lives with his mother.
Oh shut up, you pretentious little shit. There’s no use telling me things I don’t need to know and don’t want to know when Ava the Plot Point is giving a reading right in front of you. I mean, how is this in any way significant at all? I don’t give a fuck about Sabine’s friends, and I certainly couldn’t care less about what you tell me.
HOLD ON A SECOND.
I’ve just realized something. Right now, we’re seventy-two pages into the book and I have no idea what the plot is. We’ve gotten some wangsting, a lot of Sueness and a whole bunch of Hawt Hero Description. The actual story better get the fuck on with it soon.
Really. This is a bestseller? Really? Do people have absolutely nothing better to read?
I like him. I mean, I really like him. I can’t help it. I just do. And no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise, it doesn’t make it any less true.
I know why you do. It’s because the plot says so. Is that the answer? Can I go home now?
I would give anything to get my old life back, to be as normal and clueless as every other girl.
She sounds so… condescending here. God. Why are we supposed to like this idiot? I’m not a teenage girl, but I know for a fact that the word ‘clueless’ will not describe the vast majority of you.
But that’s what’s so great about Damen. He’s like an off switch.
It’s like she’s describing a product she bought from an infomercial.
BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!
Shininess, overall lack of decent characterization and, with the new DLC, will now completely adore you for no fathomable reason! Buy now with only six-hundred and twenty-two easy payments of $19.95!
Badly Written Characters^TM are in no way responsible for financial ruin or mental disorders as a result of exposure to Damen the Hawt Psychic^TM. Available in stores near you!
That was certainly weird.
Back to the story.
And even though he makes me feel wonderful and warm and as close to normal as I’ll ever get to be, I can’t help but think that there’s nothing normal about it.
Believe it or not, this was one paragraph.
And when I glance at him, my whole body heats.
I think you mean: heats up. That heat’s gotta go somewhere, you know.
I kick my feet up and smile, thinking how nice it feels to finally let go, to act like a normal girl, with a normal crush, just like anyone else.
I can’t complain about this sentence. I felt like an idiot when I had a crush on a girl in sixth grade. I guess I can empathise with Ever, just this once.
He takes his finger, the very tip of his index finger, and slides it across the width of my neck, leaving a trail of warm wonderful sizzle as he lingers just under my ear.
For all you guys out there, I don’t recommend trying this unless you’re in the seediest places imaginable. Like Marzipan City. If you got that reference, I’ll give you a $1000 dollars someday. But really, this is starting to read like what
Noël wanted some guy to do to her in high school. It doesn’t read like a novel. It’s a diary now, and that is what I shall call it from here on in.
I shrug and press my lips, wishing he’d just shut up and kiss me already.
Press your lips… I give up. What’s really painful here is that the book has so much potential to actually be halfway decent reading material, but it’s not! The actual premise and story and narrative and the plot and characters are thrown to the side so that pointless fluff can be written in their place. Now, I can appreciate well-written fluff; I’m an avid reader of fluffy fanfics involving my favourite characters (there are some brilliantly written fics on FF.net) but actually publishing that is never recommended since there’s nothing of substance in your work. Which is why a lot of popular YA is panned by many critics (Goodreads pages are useful for these vague stats) since they’re not meaningful literature.
He laughs. “It’s not possible to read minds, or tell the future, right?”
A little bit heavy-handed on the foreshadowing, are we?
“Have I angered you?” he asks, his fingers cupping my chin, bringing my face back to his.
And that’s another thing. Sometimes he uses California surf speak as well as anyone else around here, and other times, he sounds like he just walked straight out of the pages of Wuthering Heights.
Well, we’ve only got this one example to go on with. If he’d, I don’t know… ACTUALLY TALKED LIKE THIS BEFORE MAYBE I WOULD BELIEVE YOU.
“I don’t want to talk,” I whisper, holding my breath as his lips meet mine.
This ending resembles those of bad fanfics I’ve come across sometimes. The characters just… get together! Yeah, that’s about it. There’ll be a lot of unrealistic dialogue, and horribly written description, and in the end they will just kiss and that’s it. Bam. The end.
There’s the ending of the chapter, people. I’ll see you in the next instalment of the spork. Until then, goodbye!