A fact I will forever be regretful of shall be addressed as my ever burning detest I had felt for books in my years as a measly child. 

A sneer would never fail to form itself on my face whenever the teacher would bid us to gather our books and turn to some particular page about grammar. I found it tiresome, an epitome of boredom. I loathed it enough to even call it a 'hundred pages of useless'. (Yes, yes. I understand that I deserve to be fed with a writer's rejects.) But please, as reasonable as I have deemed avid fans of the written word to be, allow me to justify myself. 

Unbeknownst to I, all of that will change at the coming of my 13th birthday. 

A forced smile had carved its way through my cheeks in contrast of the grimace I wanted to make as I sarcastically, although vague, thanked my aunt for her present. Which had to be a thick paperback of Paolo Coelho's "The Alchemist". It was definitely the last gift I wanted on my wish list. 

But then, in contrary to my disappointment, I found myself immersed in the tale in which its pages held. I was moved, amazed despite my lack of vocabulary. But that didn't stop me from browsing through the dictionary to understand every bit of it. And sooner or later, I had become what I am now; An obsessed book lover that would marry any book I ever cherished right on the spot. My ten year old self would probably have slapped fifteen year old me across the face.

So I presume you understand what I am getting at? Yes? Good, moving forward. I only have less than 400 characters left to type everything and anything I intend to say to you. 

Though aspiring greatly, the fact remains unchanged that I am still new to the world of creative literature (my pride hurts, I'm an egotistical bastard). Hence, I beg your pardon if my writing skills weren't sufficient to appease your standards. However, with every suggestion, I vow to improve my repertoire of writing with every word that comes to mind.

So, are you with me?