I read Nicholas Sparks' Dear John today. My first ever from the author that I've read and this was a book I picked up at a sale at Border's when I was out buying Huda's gift some 4 months ago. I don't buy a book just because someone says 'Oh Nicholas Sparks' is a motherfucking legend. You have got to read at least ONE of his bloody books before you die.' Alright I admit, no one has ever said that to me exactly in that same exact tone. Only I can be so bloody vulgar in one breath. Anyway, I must admit it was a good read. Makes me want to go out and get me Message in a Bottle or Notebook. Maybe both. At times like these I wish I have a credit card that has no limit. I will spend it all on books, coffee and fags.

But I have got one thing to say, this bastard Nicholas Sparks broke my stupid heart, goddamnit. You are not allowed to play with a woman's heart like this. You cannot squeeze her heart for four straight hours and then no let it go. Instead you just carrying on squeezing till all the blood valves explode in your hand. It's the same kind of emotion, or tantamount to, reaching that high peak when you are about to orgasm. You don't hit the roof. Instead your man just walks away from you that mere few seconds before you climax and pat you on the head and say 'Well that had been fun, darling'. You want to cry, to want to punch the wall in, you want to throw your man against the wall and make sure that he suffers a slow death. I know that if you really sit and think about it, oh well, it's sorta like a happy ending for the girl...? But fuck it no. I don't want a sorta happy ending. I don't want to read all that bollocks about 'If you love someone, you just want them to be happy'. NONE of the self-sacrificial stuff, please. I know that yes, in real life we are forced to do things we don't want to for the person we love. Yes, I get it. But I don't want to get lost in my bloody imagination reading about this handsome army bloke and his southern belle girlfriend and get the door slammed in my face with that little touch of reality. Well, members of 'Nicholas Sparks Lovers UNITE' might be rallying at my front door, flinging poo at my face saying that THIS is what makes him one of the best author! He makes you cry because you love the characters so much that you WANT them to live happily ever after! He doesn't even give his characters a proper decent shag. It's all been censored. Ah fuck it, this is not Nora Roberts we are talking about, I know. But I'll tell you this, Nora has interesting dark humour. She always creates interesting men in her books. AND steamy sex scenes that makes you squirm while you are reading at Starbucks. None of this giggly American high school girl bullshit. But ah, one to each his own eh? I don't suppose I can just pop in any bookclub forum and toss this opinion of mine without getting slapped with 'You are an insolent fuck who's just spoiling for a bloody fight. Take your drama elsewhere'. No, you tossers. I am merely burning with this mad desire to discuss this crap I just read. I am not asking the whole shitload of you to jump on the EllaBandwagon and go burn this author's house down.

And when I'm done with this I'm left with staring at the stacks of book that I've bought and have not touched after reading a few pages of the book. Let's see... I have Anne Rice's Lasher, which I must admit as much as it hurts me to, is a GODDAMN LIFE-SUCKING, BRAIN-JUICE VACUUMING BORE! Her only works that I've enjoyed, I realize, are her Vampire chronicles. And then, in my opinion, she pretty much went to hell and back and giggled about it with her tales of bloody Christ. How ironic is that? And at the back of both books about Christ we have reviews from TIMES saying 'THIS IS THE BOOK SHE WAS MEANT TO BE WRITING!' Well you can SUCK MY LEFT ONE. I don't want to read about Jesus' venture out of bloody Egypt or Siberia, or Cairo or whatthefuckever. I want stories of beautiful undead who cannot get an erection who roam the earth sucking on smart people's blood. When I pick up a pick, I want to get lost. Get out of touch with reality. I don't want to know what Jesus is thinking. I don't want to go into religious shit. Which is why I started reading the Da Vinci code and then the whole Vatican church got involved and it all went to shit. I don't give a toss even if it got rave reviews from the fucking Queen. Who gives a bloody damn? But whatever, since I have that book rotting somewhere in my cupboard, I might pick it up again one of these days and swallow the entire book whole in a day and go 'Oh well, it was a surprisingly good read! Vatican popes or not...'.

I also have Stephenie Meyer's two books- Breaking Dawn and The Host. Both, looked promising, but once I'm done with it, I will tear its pages off the bind and use it to wipe my arse. The twillight saga was good with the first 2 books. And then it went to hell with the 3rd and 4th book. And now the stupid Bella Swan in the book is pregnant with some alien homo-vampire child and her stomach is going to implode or explode or whatever and I stopped reading then because that werewolf Jacob is doing fuck-knows-what. And reading about her vampires glittering in the book is alright. It's fathomable. But when I saw in the movies HOW her vampires glitter in the Sun, it pretty much killed any form of affection I have towards her characters. Vampires. Don't. Go. All. Swarovski. In. The. Fucking. Sun. Just HOW can she, as the author who gave birth to her characters, condone this? If I were her and I saw just how they made my vampires glitter in the sun, I would've unleashed my fucking fury on them by shoving a rubbin bin up their yahoo. And the other book, The Host. WASTE OF RECYCLED PAPER. I don't even know where it starts, where it bloody begins and when on fucking earth it's going to end. So I've left it to collect dust under my bed along with Lasher, Taltos, Breaking Dawn and that stupid chick-read that I've read a few pages before tossing it across the room.

Tomorrow, I will go to the library and pay off my 8 dollars fine just so that I can borrow more books. At least with borrowed books, if I don't like it, I can return it and get another one without it killing me. At least I won't think OHHH IT COST ME 30 BUCKS!! Books are fucking expensive here, damnit.

Just before I go, I have something to ask. How come kids these days are not reading Enid Blyton anymore? That woman is good, I tell you. I grew up collecting each and every one of her books before my brother came along and sent the whole shitload of them to hell. What are kids these days reading anyways? Surely they can't all be reading Harry Potter right? Maybe Chronicles of Narnia? Or maybe... Spongebob's great escape out of Bikini Bottom...?