there's no greater betrayal than finally starting to read a book you've had sitting for months on your shelf or your desk or your nightstand and then finding out it's bad. like. i gave you a fucking home.
recently discovered something even worse: finally reading a book you bought years ago and realizing that you don't like it and knowing that if you read it around the time that you got it you would've loved it but the version of you that liked those kinds of books and would have loved to read it doesn't exist anymore




















