The theme of the week: me sulkily quitting a book. Because the writing makes me so tired.
Catch a load of this:
“Life isn’t difficult, it isn’t picky, it isn’t unique, and fate doesn’t enter into the thing. Kick-starting the gas-guzzling subcompact go-cart of organic sentience is as easy as shoving it down a hill and watching the whole thing spontaneously explode. Life wants to happen. It can’t stand not happening.”
On its own, fine. As every sentence in the book, it’s exhausting. What’s that thing where the space between the notes is just as important as the notes? Yeah, that.