Being a voracious reader has always been the core of my personality. Being able to pick up one book after another after another and immediately get lost in the different worlds, cultures, characters’ plights and more has a spectacular element of joy that is extremely difficult to describe with mere words alone. Even so, burnouts seem to be a natural part of being a rapacious bibliophile and every time I find myself in a slump, rather than understanding that it’s a sign from my brain and my body, I get supremely angry and frustrated and so incredibly sad. That is until recently.
This book was positively excruciating to get through. Between the unnecessary and overused convoluted plot twists, the stupidity of the characters behaviours (some of which felt out-of-place), and the grotesquely outrageous objectification of women—I was ready to throw this out of my fucking window and into a trash fire where it belongs.