Kit’s Wilderness I wonder how many times I’ve seen this title and assumed it was an American Girl book. Truly a shame… This has been out for 15 years…...more Kit’s Wilderness I wonder how many times I’ve seen this title and assumed it was an American Girl book. Truly a shame… This has been out for 15 years… 15 years that I could have carried Kit and his story with me.
It almost eluded me once again, when I noticed the author, David Almond, I knew that name. A sudden surge, like a warm fuzzie or a premenopausal hot flash overcame me. Skellig. Yes. Now, I remember.
David Almond has this incredible talent. His voice. He rambles, he doesn’t use paragraphs, his dialogues runs into each other, he’s got that British slang thing and he must say “Eh? Eh?” a hundred times which just reminds me of Eh? Eh!. Then I lose my train of thought and some random facebook picture of one of Eh’s dinners pop up and then I’m hungry and I have to focus focus focus.
His voice. It’s gentle, it lulls you.
“This is our world, he used to say. “Aye, there’s more than enough of darkness in it. But over everthing there’s all this joy, Kit. There’s all this lovely lovely light.”
The story is of two boys, Kit and John, aged thirteen. Living in Stoneygate, built over an old mine that holds a power of the boys, the ghosts of children who perished down there, the fascination with death, the escape of grandfathers suffering from dementia or drunk abusive fathers… something draws them together, a story that they need to tell in order to heal.
Or something like that.
What I know is that Mr. Almond was able to lure me into a story of two pubescent boys living in a bleak town in England and hold me there, tightly, until he decided he was done with me. Cast me off into the tunnels below Stoneygate. And now I feel hollow and I’m meandering, trying to catch Silky’s eye. (You have to be in the know) (less)
The worst thing in the world would be to pretend t know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.
Le...moreThe worst thing in the world would be to pretend t know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.
Levithan is revisiting A, the character he introduced us to in Every Day. I suppose this is a prequel that needs to be read as a sequel so you understand A, you can see, be, the six different people that A has chosen you to glimpse.
Again, such beauty. One day does not ever seem enough and to stay detached, to try to not disrupt, to always have to be thinking of the person you are squatting in and not yourself... I don't envy A.
"It's the secret smile you get from knowing that, somewhere, there is someone who is yours. Not in the sense that you own her, or control her. She is yours because you can say anything to her."
Too often we realize this too late.
"The desire to be heard is as deepply seeded as the desire to be loved. So much of the technology we spend our time on is geared toward this. For some people, it doesn't matter who's on the other end."
I want to hug David Levithan. I have since I met A, Nick, Nora... and now I want to meet all of his creations. I may even go back and find which Baby Sitter's Club books he wrote.
I'm a geek.. I'm nerd... I have no life.. but if not living means I can throw myself in a Levithan world, then I'm okay with that. I feel lighter after one of his reads.
I hate this book. I hate it with..with…HATE. It’s visceral, I mean literally VISCERAL, like affecting me internally. My arms are humming and my legs a...more I hate this book. I hate it with..with…HATE. It’s visceral, I mean literally VISCERAL, like affecting me internally. My arms are humming and my legs are pounding and my throat has closed and my fingers shake and such hate from the bowels of depth or depth of bowels or whatever you think is right because I can’t think I’m so filled with….
Want. Need. Loss. Despair.
This is a love story. It’s a story of two young people falling in love.
“Romeo and Juliet are just two rich kids who’ve always gotten every little thing they want. And now, they think they want each other.” “They’re in love..” Mr. Stessman said, clutching his heart. “They don’t even know each other,” she said. “It was love at first sight.” “It was ‘Oh my God, he’s so cute’ at first sight. If Shakespeare wanted you to believe they were in love, he wouldn’t tell you in almost the very first scene that Romeo was hung up on Rosaline… It’s Shakespeare making fun of love.” She said. “They why has it survived?”….”Tell us, why has Romeo and Julie survived four hundred years?” Park hated talking in class. Eleanor frowned at him, then looked away. He felt himself blush. “Because…” he said quietly, looking at his desk, “Because people want to remember what it’s like to be young? And in love?”
See? Rainbow Rowell is making fun of us. We should all be storming her door with torches and yard rakes.
It’s not like books haven’t done this to me before, but maybe just maybe I’m wiser now.. maybe I’ve gained some distance from that ‘When he touched Eleanor’s hand, he recognized her. He knew. Eleanor: Disintegrated. ….. If you’ve ever wondered what that feels like, it’s a lot like melting—but more violent.”
Or maybe not.
Because this isn’t REAL. It doesn’t LAST. You can’t NEED a person like that forever. It FADES, it withers and dies and if it doesn’t outwardly die, it limps along begrudgingly muttering bits of snarkyness under its halitosis laden breath.
And that is why I hate it so much, it stirred up all that stale oxytocin that is mixing with my gastric juices and flung it around right back into circulation... visceral and made me feel weak, made me cry. Made me wish for that.
But, it only happens in books. I have to keep reminding myself of that. The good never lasts. And it’s never the big dramatic orchestra laden climax that does it. It’s just life. And the memories are there and they sting and a glimmer of hope of having that again rises up until you put down the book and know that there really isn’t an Eleanor or a Park and it’s the end of Say Anything all over again when Lloyd and Diane are on the plane and they look at each and you know… you just know that they’re not going to last.
Maybe you cry for that old self. Or maybe you let the bitterness eat at you. All’s Fair..
“Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict suffering on anything that will endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuine humility, or indifferen...more“Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict suffering on anything that will endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuine humility, or indifference, or sheer helplessness.” ― Honoré de Balzac
Some article some where said that this was one of those 'must read' young adult books. I didn't really read into it to see why. The title sort of piqued my interest. Who didn't have a hate list? Right?
My 25th high school reunion was 2 days ago. I found this out because a couple of friends from middle school had facebooked me and I saw a few posts about partying it up with the class of 1988. I admit, I was interested. I looked at their photos. I looked at some of the profiles of people that made my life hell. (I have that stalker thing going on.) I have that need to see if these people are miserable. I still ( still) want them to be miserable. I guess I haven't grown, much.
I recently finished Margaret Atwood's beautifully written book dealing with bullying, Cat's Eye, and found myself too wound up to actually write a review. Too emotional, too full. I then read karen'sreview and thought that she summed it up pretty well. There is a hollow that comes from those scars.. it changes you even when you are not sure how or why.
Now I find that I can't escape this topic. I have a daughter in middle school. I see her suffer from those hateful little beasts day in and day out. I want to shield her, I want to pummel them. I want to tell her it will be okay, but I know that it will not, because here I am, living proof, that it is not.
Do you really ever get over bullying? Does the Hate List ever get dismissed?
It's been 25 years since I left the hell of high school social life and I still have the scar tissue.. tender even.... I finished this book within 24 hours and while I read the words, the images that formed were not of Val and Nick and Jessica and Christy, but of my own demons. Of the Twissas, and Dereks, and Sues that I see posing in photo booth pictures at the reunion acting like this was such a great time in their lives. Sure, maybe it was. Maybe they've blocked out the horrible things that they did, the horrible people that they were and chocked it up to youth. Fuck them, I say. I'm not ready to get over it.
This book wasn't outstanding, but it did have some interesting messages.... How the media represents the 'healing process' of the schools after such a massacre. How very Columbine it was (although we've experienced too many such massacres since, Columbine is the one that always comes to my mind) How schools come together after a tragedy. Right. Sure it does.
"People hate. That's our reality. People hate and are hated and carry grudges and want punishments.
The news tells us that hate is no longer our reality.
I don't know if it's possible to take hate away from people. Not even people like us, who've seen firsthand what hate can do. We're all hurting. We're all going to be hurting for a long time. And we, probably more than anyone else out there, will be searching for a new reality every day. A better one."
The cynical part of me says 'Good luck with that.' I can't see a better reality for people who carry that grudge. I can tell you that I am not a good enough person to say that after 25 years I didn't see all the same faces as I read through this book, that I didn't sympathize with the killer. Maybe it was the reunion that brought that out in me... but I didn't feel anything but the old resentments surface.
I'm afraid to face my 12 year old today. I'm afraid that I'm going to have to lie and tell her that it goes away. My words will sound hollow and will drift (much like this review has). This makes me sadder than you will ever know. (less)
"We're not the first, I hope we're not the last. 'Cause I know we're all heading for that adult crash. The time is so little, the time belongs to us....more"We're not the first, I hope we're not the last. 'Cause I know we're all heading for that adult crash. The time is so little, the time belongs to us. Why is everybody in such a fucking rush? Make do with what you have. Take what you can get. Pay no mind to us. We're just a minor threat. We're just a minor threat.
Ahh.. sweet memories of stomping around my room raging (as loud as a 15 year old can rage in suburbia without upsetting the ‘rents) Good times. Good times.
Joe Meno has got it down. He’s in the zone. Angst, derived from the german word angst or the dutch word angst. Wiki says:” the word angst is not a loanword as it is in English, but has been in existence long, and is used regularly to express fear.”
In long existence. No shit. Hairstyles of the Damned is centered in Chicago, circa 1991. Anthony, you remember that, right? Brian, the protagonist is around sixteen/seventeen..that normal, hormonal, acne-laden, erection-erupting mess of self doubt. We all remember that..right?
Brian’s scene is the punk/metal crowd. More metal than punk so it was easier for me to distance myself from him, no literary crushes happening here, and that is what made this book more than your average angst story to me. I lived in that crowd.
We took the greyhound to Boston every Sunday to attend all ages punk shows. I was 15, these shows were at 1pm, it all worked out.. catering to the youth. That time is such a staple for who I am now.. so so many bands, so much moshing, so much drama.
Meno gets it right, we were worse than the jocks/cheerleaders.. we were much harsher on each other.. ‘Your uniqueness is not cool enough for us’. There was one group of punks that always caught my eye. They were definitely part of the cool crowd. The hung outside the club in their leather jackets and torn fishnets, with just the right hair and makeup. The boy was beautiful.. blonde, dreadlocked, pale.. I always looked forward to seeing them and sort of mulling around their coolness. Well, this one weekend, we were staying at a friend’s dorm and didn’t have to worry about curfew or anything, after the show, Robyn met up with this cool crowd outside. SHE KNEW THEM! I was so freaking nervous, I hid behind my bangs while she talked to them… Next thing, we’re going to hang with them. No. Freaking. Way. We followed through the streets of Cambridge at one point cutting through a office building, I’m not sure the point of this.. but they wanted to take the elevator.. just to do it, I suppose.. so, there we are, waiting. The doors open and they jump in and block the entrance for me and my friend. ‘Only people wearing leather can ride in this elevator’.
Huh? Wait. Um… what about the unity, the common hatred for the bland? Meno gets it: “We were the lucky ones we had it all figured out. We had somehow managed to avoid being brainwashed by reckless corporations and it was our right-our destiny-to help by eliminating every bad cassette in the mall parking lot, tape by tape, car by car, day by day.”
My thickly black eyelinered eyes were opened. We were mall rats who liked to dress up and think we were better than everyone else. We spent hours, and hundreds of cans of Aquanet, making sure our hair stood just right. We spent our allowance on the new Misfits album, or the new Dead Kennedys.. we danced and roared and understood none of it. God, I hate my punk rock self.
“I think a lot of these punk kids we know are fucking poseurs,” I said. “I think most of them, they just do whatever, you know, to fit in. It’s like a totally mindless act. Like Kim, it’s all about fucking fashion.”
"What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you two guys are like the most close-minded people I know, I said “you don’t even know what punk is about, you know? You just dress like it because you were like a loser and it, like, gave you someone to be after junior high, something to belong to, you know?”
Wow. Slap in the face. This is so sad.. I want to hit my 15 year old self with my black light but she’d probably like it and like write a poem about it.
I wasn’t lying when I said that this time in my life formed who I am. Those shows… watching Kevin Seconds make the moshing pit push back so a little punk girl wasn’t crushed against the stage.. seeing Ian Makaye yell at a bunch of assholes who were cheering during “Suggestion”.
I learned a lot about myself and what I wanted my life to be about. These bands gave me inspiration and made me study events or movements that mattered to them.. that should matter to all. I wouldn’t change it.. even the ‘x’s that I shaved into the sides of my head to announce my straight edged-ness.
The reason that I only gave this book 3 stars (should really be like 3.8) is that I felt that Meno was getting all Breakfast Clubby up in my face. I need no moral tale; I just liked the re-visitation of that slice of life.
He does mention this one scene when Brian is watching Night of the Living Dead and he’s describing the scene:
“ There was this one scene where the hero, this young black dude, and the heroine, this kind of high-strng white girl, are like hiding out in this old farmhouse trying to avoid being strangled by hundreds of zombies, right , and it turns out that in the cellar or basement of the farmhouse, well there are all these other people, white people, and they were hiding down there and they knew what the fuck was going on upstairs but they didn’t help the back guy and white chick, and so the black guy starts yelling at this dude who is kind of middle-aged and blue collar, the leader of the white people who were all chicken-shit, and the whit dude says something like “We were in a safe place. Are you telling me we were supposed to leave our safe place just to help someone out?”
Gray skies are gonna clear up, Put on a happy face
As a self-proclaimed Pollyanna, I will be the first to admit that I would want to punch you in the f...moreGray skies are gonna clear up, Put on a happy face
As a self-proclaimed Pollyanna, I will be the first to admit that I would want to punch you in the face if you said this to me. What the hell is wrong with a little rain? Huh? You can't be happy if it rains? Fuck you.
You can have your gangnum style and complain about never ever ever ever getting back together again and umm... okay, that's my extent of youth culture... you guys like furbies again, right?
Happy face is old school teen angst. There are no vampires or faeries or dystopian threats... hell... HIGH SCHOOL is a dystopian threat. It is the absolute clear definition of dystopia: "an imaginary place where people lead dehumanized and often fearful lives." Can't get much realer than this.
Brush off the clouds and cheer up, Put on a happy face.
Seriously. Fuck you.
Happy face is special in that it gives you the out. It tells you how to beat this. It's all right there in front of you. Believe it or not, the song has it right....
Take off the gloomy mask of tragedy, It's not your style; You'll look so good that you'll be glad Ya' decide to smile!
See? I just told you. DO NOT BE YOURSELF. You will be ridiculed, you will get beat up, you will be lonely and want to die.
You see, I was this thing. I was a miserable a=loaded-gun-won't-set-you-free-so-you-say sixteen year old who wore my Undead t-shirt proudly and played my 1987 UK second issue 3-track 12" vinyl single, also including How Soon Is Now? & Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want, Billie Whitelaw image picture sleeve with light blue die cut and I was totally into IT. Where did it get me? Being spit on at Pep Rallys, my friend... do not follow my example.
So, I decided to stick out my noble chin... I decided to wipe off that 'full of doubt' look. I decided to... no offense to the hair colored challenged... go blonde. Literally. I got rid of the Siouxsie Sioux hair color and cut my bangs and found the bleach beat my hair into submission. I even went further.. I found saddle shoes and letterman sweaters and poodle skirts and listened to rockabilly and man DID I EVER SMILE. I slapped on that happy grin! And spread sunshine all over the place, goddammit. And guess what?
People actually bought it. They totally liked the new me. It depressed the hell out of me. Didn't they understand the mockery?
And then... I bought into it. I said, hell... if this is what it takes, then this is what I will be. And I bounced and I giggled and I hello kittied my way through my senior year.
So, I can relate with Happy Face. He gets it. If you are pathetic in your old life, then create a new one. Yes, eventually this will lead to some sort of dissociative identity disorder and you may need sleep hygiene therapy, but maybe by then you will be out of high school and finding a new "society characterized by human misery, as squalor, oppression, disease, and overcrowding."
We can only hope.
And if you're feeling cross and bitterish Don't sit and whine Think of banana split and licorice And you'll feel fine
Some girls are weak, some girls are conniving, some girls are wretched, vile, petty, reprehensible, fucktards, beastly, browbeaters, evil, injurious,...more Some girls are weak, some girls are conniving, some girls are wretched, vile, petty, reprehensible, fucktards, beastly, browbeaters, evil, injurious, dreadful, loathsome, tormentors, insolent, spiteful, and just fucking mean. Some girls are twats.
Let me take a second to pop my eighth vitamin C drop and blow my nose on my ‘face wipes’ because my place of employment do not believe in tissues. I will also take this moment to let you know that this damn summer cold thing has greatly altered my perceptions and the ‘all people have good in them somewhere if we give them a chance’ crap is out. Weg. Wamekwenda. Outta heahhhh
We’ve seen this before... many times, a YA book about bullying? It’s like old school, we know have YA books about crank and cutting and mad cow disease and sex and sex with animals and sex with teachers and..... (cough*gasp*wheeze*) Anyway, GR’s top 5 YA books as voted by all of you involve a boy wizard, a dystopian battle to the death, a clutzy vampire lover, a demigod with daddy issues, and a poor boy chosen to carry on the memories, sins, history of his people. (Really? You guys gave The Giver the #4 spot? Good on ya!)
I did not become attached to this book. I read it as I would a magazine article. Hey look there, huh. I didn’t care enough about the characters to put much into them. Why? They wouldn’t give me the time of day. I know this lot. I know how they work. I was ‘bullied’ but I was lucky. Mine was pre social media and really just took inane cheerleaders who had nothing else to do but torment me. I fucking still can’t stand them, Susan Deblois and Tricia (Twissa) Paradis. They didn’t do much.. a giggle there, an eyeroll here, they weren’t even the ones that spit on me... those I hold no real grudge about... But Sue and Twissa... you guys are pathetic.
My children get bullied... and now this is a bit more serious... since, if you look up my town on Wiki you will see that we have the honor of being mentioned for “in 2003, as a result of the nationally publicized suicide of an Essex Junction teenager, Vermont, and other states, passed legislation against cyber-bullying.” Yay.
My kids are pretty resilient, I hope. It’s what I see… at least in my two oldest… But, I think they hold a lot back. They have more gusto than their mom, probably got that from the dad, but they do hurt. Like the day that Izzy came home because she heard a couple of girls talking about a rumor that Izzy threw up before lunch so no one should go near her. ??? Or Satchel being bullied by two nasty little twin girls in pre-school that was soon fixed by my ever loving bff Michelle ‘Booby’ Metro when she suggested that “Like when Miss Ashley (his teacher) isn’t looking, you squat down in front of the girls and you tell them that if they ever touch your son again you’ll drive them out into the woods where nobody will see them until spring when their wolf-ravaged carcasses are found sticking out of the melting snow.” I need my own Booby for times like this… But, for the most part… I’m not seeing it so much… But, to think that I could be as blind as the mom in this book--that frightens me.
I don’t care about Regina. I don’t care that Regina is pretty much one big ball of acidic gasses. She deserves it. She can try to repent all she wants, she can try to undo all she wants, she can fucking martyr herself. I don’t care. She shouldn’t have ever been attracted to that Heathers Crowd. First of all, wearing the same outfits every day? Hello? First clue? Then, being the alpha bitch’s bitch? Really? You think so low of yourself that you cannot figure this out? How important is all this to you? I don’t get it. I just never have. Popularity seems equivalent to being stupid. I would never strive for such. I wouldn’t lower myself to the shit that Regina does for that posse. It’s so sad to watch. Yet, I know… I know… that there are girls out there doing this. Christ. Where is the fun? Is drama your main motivation? Ruining the high school years of girls who are already dealing with the high school fears and not trusting their true self and all that garbage that every After school special drilled into us the parents? Where are the parents of these monsters? Watching babies in tiaras or desperate housewives. Yes, this goes much deeper than a humbled, shy, ill, 40 something with her own self worth issues.
Yes, Regina… suck that antacid and deal. Spend the rest of your life wondering what made you decide that this was the path that you needed to follow. That it was better to do this than to be alone at lunch. And fuck you for getting the cute, dysfunctional writer boy in the end. (oops spoiler) because you don’t deserve it. You deserve to be in your mid 40s sitting in some bar discussing the ‘merits’ of Christian Grey and how hot that is because if you really believe that then you have just totally vindicated every smart bullied girl my age (yeah, directed at you Sue and Twissa… I hope he rocks your worlds because sex must really really suck IRL)
And the whole ‘don’t hate the playah, hate the game’ attitude? Screw that? The game is bullshit and the players are twats. Please get a life. (less)
Zombies. Seriously. I mean, isn’t being a teenager hard enough without having to deal with them? Angst looks likes fluffy pancakes on a Sunday morning...more Zombies. Seriously. I mean, isn’t being a teenager hard enough without having to deal with them? Angst looks likes fluffy pancakes on a Sunday morning. Jesus.
I liked this book. It’s got that Breakfast Club meets Lord of the Flies hanging with A Child called It at a Walking Dead party. Yep. That pretty much sums it up for me. I know I was supposed to be all ‘will they live?’ when they’re running through the halls but I’m seeing Anthony Michael Hall and Judd Nelson against an Oingo Boingo soundtrack. I don’t think that’s what Courtney Summers wanted us to get out of this.
I had no idea this was a zombie book, which can be argued as NOT being a zombie book because really you only meet like 3 zombies, I just knew that from reading Fall for Anything or Some Girls Are that I liked her style of writing. I liked her characters. This is no different. I see Sloane as a teenage Christina Ricci and Rhys as a loveable Christian Slater type. Trace and Grace (yes… that’s what I said…) as a harsher Joey Lawrence type and the ‘pre-Dylan Mckay’ Jennie Garth… it’s there… I’m having trouble with Cary though. Can’t seem to place him.
So, yes, it was a good book. It was a good afternoon spent on the couch during a rainstorm. I just really don’t have any more to say about it. Oh, except I thought the ending was cool… not too over formulated.
Hype was the reason that I gave it 3 stars instead of 4. Damn you, Hype! I shake my angry angsty fist at you.(less)
"Everything popular is wrong” so writes Oscar Wilde, and why wouldn’t he? The snarky bastard. He was in a mood, of course. He wanted to be adored, rig...more "Everything popular is wrong” so writes Oscar Wilde, and why wouldn’t he? The snarky bastard. He was in a mood, of course. He wanted to be adored, right? Who doesn’t really? Isn’t that the angst of it all? Who hates me? Will I be the freak du jour today? Oh shit, the head cheerleader is talking to me, what the hell?
High school was not the best time for me… believe it or not. I was shy and therefore considered a bitch because I stared at the ground, hiding behind my 7 inch bangs and never making eye contact. I wore black, spoke softly and read a lot of books. I had a group of friends and we were the outcasts, listening to Joy Division and Minor Threat and The Smiths and The Dead Kennedys…our view was skewed, yes.. but after getting spit on at pep rallies or tripped in hallways we needed to be skewed… whatever.. it’s high school.. get over it. (I can say this 25 odd years later but now I have two kids in middle school and my stomach turns every day at the thought of what they have to endure… kids are fucking mean).
This book is no different than other coming of age stories. There is a protagonist who has to find out who he truly wants to be. There are peer pressure issues; there are judgments and misconstrued intentions. Except in this story it’s not Cinderelly getting her slipper on, it’s Charming wanting to be Quasimodo.
Liam is the son of Cindy Crawford and Bill Gates… or the fictionalized versions of them. He lives in Westchester… he looks like his mom… he grew up on Paris runways and New York Fashion weeks… We should hate him, right? He’s beautiful, he’s rich, he’s… beautiful and rich. Um… and popular. Yes, he is popular. But, remember…this book is called King of the Screwups… there’s some meat in here.
Liam considers himself the ultimate fuck up. He can’t say the right thing, he barely squeaks by in his classes, he is constantly finding himself in exactly the wrong spot (like lying on your father’s desk with the president of the national honor society half naked on top of you and being so drunk that you hurl all over his office). Yes, Liam is to blame.. he doesn’t get off that easy… he made these choices… he accepts that he’s a screw up and therefore he feels worthless.
I think that this is where we can all relate. Who doesn’t ever feel worthless? I mean how many of us are THAT well adjusted to say that they have never had that feeling? If you’ve listened to The Smiths, that automatically disqualifies you… put your hand down now.
Liam gets shipped off to live with his cross dressing Auncle Pete in a trailer park in buttfuck county. He feels lucky to be here, this or with his militant grandparents, well.. take the plastic flamingos any day, right? Here he decides that he will not screw up… He will be UNpopular. Yeah, that’s an insult to all us freaks, right? C’mon… like we haven’t already judged this hot, well coiffed rich boy..and now he wants to be LIKE U S? Riiiiight… keep walkin’ boy…
I would have thought that, except this kid is so damn SINCERE. I mean… there are times I just want to slap his perfectly sculpted cheekbones and un-tousle his bronze copper colored hair (yeah, that’s a 50 shades reference right there).
Liam tries so hard to be uncool… he wants to be considered studious and most of all he wants to impress his dad.. which is what the whole gist of this story is… the nature vs nurture argument… Liam is a product of his mother… he gets fashion, he gets how to get your point across by just looking a certain way. His dad thinks he is useless and doesn’t mince words telling him so. As we get to know Liam, we see that everything that drives this poor kid is only to please his bastard of a father.
Been there, tried that. Except, my dad was nowhere near anything that should be impressible. I was a fool and Liam is too. He is scarred by this overwhelming need to be something he’s not. Man, that sucks. I feel for the kid.
“You can’t create love, you just have to take it where you can find it.”