I’m sorry Dickens. It’s not you, it’s me.
Actually, I think in this case, you might be partially to blame.
I can’t understand you. I feel like we’re both talking two different languages and with each page, I’m getting more and more frustrated.
In truth, I picked you up and read the first hundred pages or so for the first update, then put you down and haven’t picked you up again. In fact, I haven’t even wanted to pick you up again.
I know, I see you eyeing me over on my nightstand, but instead I want to grab all of the other books to read instead. The books I know will make more sense than you ever did.
Maybe we’ll get along better in the future, who knows.
I can’t say that I’m actually DNF-ing you yet because I might still work at you page by page, just to see what the fuss is about, but I can’t say that I want to force myself to read your pages. It’s just frustrating me and I want to throw you across the room.
May we meet again in the future, Dickens. For now, I think I’ll just pick up something light.