Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder.
A brilliant yet piercing factual literature. Decisively, prolifically and aptly written on how literate damsels gloss over the actualities that make love as uncomplicated as breathing; by virtue of the revered academe that which has triumphantly inculcated among all of them that grounds must be set all the time. The very act that paves the way for the dissipation of passionate love's inherent enchantment which ought to be the heart of every romantic relationship beyond everything.
You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am.
...You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied.
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