This book is not desperate. The author is. She's desperate for everything. She's desperate for friends, confidence, a soulmate. She's desperate for everything because she knows she'll probably end up alone. She loves her friends, but constantly wonders if they hang out with her because they feel bad for her. She's so desperate for confidence, she'll talk about her insecurities, because even if she knows they aren't true, she's desperate for compliments. But compliments are empty calories. Compliments sit there like a BS card; everyone knows that it's complete bullshit, but nobody wants to call it out. The author is desperate for someone to love. She knows it takes time to find the right person, but she's also desperate to stop guys from making her a dare. She's desperate to stop being treated like an expired carton of milk that's so repulsive no one wants to throw it away in fear of touching it. She's desperate.
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YOU ARE READING
A Normal Book
Literatura faktuThis book is normal. The author isn't. The author is untrusting, desperate, and scared of embarrassment. The author hates the author.