SIENNA
October 5th, 2014
I stared blankly at the monitor. The book was a disaster, the wine was aplenty, and the night was yet another spent at home alone. I wondered if I died in my sleep some night or fell into a wine induced coma and was unplugged from life support by some nurse who hated cool bitches just who would write and read my eulogy. I considered what it might say, based on them somehow finding someone who knew me well enough to write something.
She drove a cool car and her hair was awesome.
She had a nice butt when she wore those jeans from The Limited.
Her nail beds were nice, but she rarely chose a good color of polish.
Her eyebrows needed work.
Thinking about it, I came close to crying. I had no one, was falling for a man that would probably never fall for me, yet I couldn’t fathom ever wanting any other man. My life had become a disaster. I was twenty-six, single, and had spent a lifetime in and out of relationships with losers. My father was probably turning over in his grave at the thought of his precious daughter withering away as an unmarried woman now pushing thirty years old.
My father, not unlike me, was constantly reading something. Everything from cookbooks to old folklore could be found beside his bed on any given day. He was a sponge willing to soak up anything he could gather from reading. Me? I became a dreamer while he was away in prison, and began reading romance novels as fast as I could flip the pages. As soon as I got a Kindle and learned of the one-click option, my savings account began to dwindle, and my TBR list grew into the thousands.
Romance novels were my weakness, and living the life depicted in them had become my dream.
Before my father went to prison, he told me persistence is rewarded in a manner indifference will never know. I applied it all through high school, and my grades were a reflection of his wise words and my desire to make him proud of his little girl.
I considered the advice of my father, and decided unless I applied it to my life, I would simply fall back into a proven pattern of slipping further and further away from what it was I deserved.
I deserved to be loved as much as I was able to love.
My eyes eventually focused on the monitor, and I realized I had spent an immeasurable amount of time wallowing in my sorrows. Spiraling into a state of self-pity wasn’t something I needed to do, and I knew focusing on my review should resolve the issue.
I grabbed the bottle of wine, raised it to my lips, and took a long drink. Much to my surprise, the flow of the sweet substance abruptly stopped, leaving me holding a useless glass paperweight over my bobbing head.
How in the fuck did that happen?
I blinked my eyes and stared at the bottle. It was definitely empty, even though I had opened it only a few minutes prior.
I swear, they’re making these bottles smaller. Maybe the glass is thicker and they hold less...
I shook the bottle, gazed blankly at the bottom, and shoved it onto the desk beside my monitor. After teetering back and forth for a few seconds, it stopped quivering and came to rest upright and…
Empty.
The bottle’s ability to hold itself upright after I tossed it across my desk was all the proof I needed that the wineries were making the glass thicker, and providing me with much less of the nerve soothing potion I required to complete my Sunday night ritual.
Fuckers.
I glared at the screen, angry about the wine situation. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by The Pretenders calmed my nerves as I began to read my glorious review.
You’re probably reading this review wondering just what book I read. Well, don’t let all the five star reviews fool you. I’m drunk enough, experienced enough, and lack fear of retribution enough to give an honest opinion.
And here it is.
This book was awful.
And regardless of how many tens of thousands of followers the author has, I’m not afraid to admit it.
I refuse to fall in line with every other reader or reviewer who states this book is a “great read” or “fabulous” just because the author is a well-recognized figure in the industry.
Newsflash.
Five star reads are NOT books that have unbelievable characters doing unbelievable things.
This book read like an episode of the Jerry fucking Springer Show.
I fell in love with the guy who raped me as a teen, and used to come to my house as a babysitter and tie me up in the basement and stick broom handles in my twat. He beat me unconscious when I was twenty, and my family moved away, but I decided to stay because I truly loved him.
Then, after a few years of suggesting and me willingly complying with his requests to have threesomes with him and his brother, I woke up and decided to break it off.
After six months of sulking and smoking meth, I decided to give his other brother a try, only to fall in love with the stepfather.
Are you fucking kidding me right now?
As I read this worthless piece of shit, I held my breath in wait of the trip to Tijuana and the Shetland pony show. That’s really all this book was missing.
Great read?
I think not.
Hot sex scenes?
No.
Well written?
Yes.
But I don’t care to read another hot sex scene when the h is mentally challenged and incapable of standing up for herself against an H who is overbearing, has a thirteen inch cock, and can fuck for twelve hours straight without the aid of a Viagra.
“Fuck me and my brother, okay?”
“I don’t want to, it’s not right…”
“How can it be wrong if I want it and you love me, Aphilia?”
“I guess it can’t. Okay, I’ll do it, but only because I love you…”
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a direct quote from this five star read. I’m sorry, but I about barfed.
And who in the absolute fuck names their kid Aphilia, anyway?
Nobody.
Want a five star review?
Write me a book about a girl named Sienna who gets her brains fucked out by a bearded biker.
My rating? Half a star because I liked the dedication, but with great reluctance I must give it one star because Goodreads won’t allow zero.
I published the review and reached for the bottle of wine. After raising it to my lips, I realized it was the same empty bottle I had so eagerly abandoned earlier.
Heavy, but empty.
Fuck.
After removing my glasses and tossing them to the side, I pushed myself away from my desk, stood, and sang backup for Madonna’s “Santa Baby,” which was the only thing that saved me from my wine deprived state of being. As the song came to a close, I smiled and fell back onto my bed with my arms outstretched.
After a moment of staring at the ceiling I rolled over and smashed my face into the closest pillow.
My lunch with Vince earlier in the day had been perfect.
Vince was perfect.
And I was sure I could be perfect for him, I just needed an opportunity.
I wrapped my arms around the pillow, squeezed it tight, and within a few seconds, began to softly cry.
And on that night, in a slightly drunken state of being, I cried myself to sleep for the first time in five years.