Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're trying to run as fast as you can, but your legs feel like they're propelling themselves through wet, dense mud? Now, imagine that for every 10 minutes you jog through this sludge, you're allowed 8 seconds to run at a pace of a 4-minute mile, before having your feet once again encased in cement bricks. You now have some semblance of my excruciating experience reading this dreadful, heinous, poorly-written dribble.

The author needs to take a lesson on reigning in the exposition; we get it, the main character's life is terribly boring. Stop assuming your audience is comprised of dim-witted imbeciles who can't grasp the doldrums of the protagonist's mediocre job, and obnoxious family after 30 pages. Oh, wait, let's quickly punctuate the story's misery with a quick and brutal killing, and then go immediately back into 30 more pages of boring, repetitive vomit.

Spare yourself the agony of reading this and just jam a rusted fork into your eye socket.