I think you’d better.

So, I have this habit, this terrible habit really, of reading the back cover or jacket of a book and then purchasing it. Usually, I end up with a great book and I’m completely happy with my purchase. But, once in a while I experience extreme buyer’s remorse. This is one of those times.

I picked up Grow Up by Ben Brooks quite some time again but never really got around to reading it. I should have left it on my shelf. grow-up

Normally I admire most people who finish writing a book and apparently Brooks has published five books including this particular travesty. This book is so poorly written. I felt like I was reading the journal of an eleven year old boy who was trying to sound sixteen. It was painful.

Now, the cover says “Makes you snort with laughter” -Noel Fielding. Personally, I love a good laugh, heck if a snort is involved all the better! I found no such part of this book funny.

Usually in a book with little plot the author focuses entirely on character development. I’m sorry Brooks, you have no such thing in your book. The ONLY development I noticed is that the socio-path of a main character figured out when it’s not a good time to have an erection. I feel like I need to hit Brooks over the nose with a newspaper.

This “novel” (for I cringe to give it that title), is about a self-centered, asshole of a teenager who’s always smoking, getting high on whatever drug he manages to get his hands on,  trying to fuck every girl in sight, and to top it all off thinks his step-dad is a murderer. Some how he does manage to sleep with girls, but being a female myself I can’t help but think, “who in their right mind would EVER sleep with this kid?” Jasper, the main character, is not charismatic, not witty, or affectionate, or loveable in ANY way. Even if you’re a girl who opens herself to any passer by you’d still be iffy about this one. Brooks, I did not buy into your story one bit.

This book is just Brooks peddling his teenage fantasies and calling it fiction. Don’t misunderstand me, I know very well that teenagers get up into all kinds of dirty, nasty, drugy things. But this is just too much.

On the book jacket it even says that Brooks was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. My reaction: “WHAT?!”

I always worry that when I get around to writing something it wont be good enough to be published. But it publishers are stooping to publishing this kind of terrible writing then I have no worries for my future.

Please, spare yourself the pain and avoid Grow Up. I know my copy will be in the nearest Book Donation bin within the hour.



I’m at a loss, loss of thought. Does anyone else experience this? I’m sure they do.

But today, I feel at a loss. I’ve lost my outward me, my essence, my drive.

What am I doing? Am I even doing anything? Suddenly life is going through the motions and I have not created a thing. Inspiration, imagination, creativity, strength, worth: they’re lost. Where did I lose them?

This is my fault. Why? I’ve domesticated myself. Not in a 50’s house wife making her husband meatloaf kind of way, that I will never be morally able to accomplish. Besides, you need to have at the very least a relationship to consider cooking for something that resembles a significant other. No, no I’m still just me in my world. I have added no one.

Well, that’s not entirely true. My domestication comes from the life of the being I am now responsible for. I have in my hands the life of a kitten who is entirely mine. Her name is Lux. She and I share my basement suit. I call her my little girl, she probably calls me Pink-Thing-With-The-Food. I pride myself on the belief that my cat is NOT people.

But I digress. I haven’t written anything. Where’s my authorial voice? I don’t remember leaving it at the pub or the hair dresser or in class. Last time I wrote anything was about a month ago. A month?! And I call myself a writer. I should be scoffed at.

Oh look, the clock struck midnight. I’m officially twenty-three, but that’s not really true. If we’re going by exacts I’ll be twenty-three at the stroke of about 6:30am. Don’t wish me a pleasant new age just yet.

Where are my words? I feel like I’ve left them in the back pocket of my jeans, only I can’t remember which jeans. I can’t wash any of them because if I do I may ruin my words. But, they’re lost in a mountain of unwashed jeans, with thousands of pockets to search and I just don’t have the energy to look through them all.

Maybe my words will find me. They’ll scurry up to my door like a lost dog that’s just remembered where home is. They’ll saunter up, proud of their accomplishments, proud that they finally remember where they’re favourite bowl of food is filled. They’ll wag their tails and lick my hands and tangle around my legs in joy that they’ve finally found that person that gives them the best scratch behind the ears.

Or maybe, just maybe my words are waiting for me. Waiting for the time that I’m ready to see them. They’re there, in the shadows, lurking, watching, waiting. I’m not ready to see them yet, I’m not ready to feel enough, to be enough to use them. I haven’t thought of them lately, I haven’t tried to find them. I’m not ready to use them.

Either way, I feel like I’ve lost something. Do I grieve? Do I morn? or do I just go on? Son of a bitch, I almost rhymed. Good writers don’t rhyme. You see, you see how empty these words are? These aren’t mine. Mine aren’t with me.

I’m at a loss, but they’ll be found or come back or show themselves. Just you wait, just you wait.

So I called…

Recently I got around to watching the movie For a Good Time Call…

I had no real expectations going into this, I just wanted something to watch on a Sunday night. Well, I was pleasantly surprised. Now, For a Good Time Call… is not your conventional story. It’s about two girls starting a phone sex company to make money for rent.


Obviously, there were cliches. There are the prudent, closed off, awkward girl and the loud, sexually explicit, outgoing girl. A typical “unlikely friendship.”

But the story didn’t go far. The girls who weren’t friends at the beginning became roommates and best friends by the end of it. Bottom line, this is a chick flick. The unique plot gimmick of starting a phone sex company was really all that was new for this usually terrible genre of film.

But, the script was pretty good. I have to say I felt like these were real people, not the completely idealistic, stereotypical, archetypes we find in every other chick flick around. These characters actually had moments of complexity! What a break-through for chick flicks everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t always hate on chick flick. I watch them myself, but I know that I’m watching a terrible movie. I watch them because I want an escape, not reality. But For a Good Time Call… gave me a punch of real fruit juice in my kool-aid. 

I’d recommend watching it for a movie night, if not for a laugh then for a small taste of what women a almost like.