Some stupid Target clerk suggested I watch this sob fest. She, clearly, hated me.
What I just sat through in the last 2 hours will haunt me forever. Nicholas Sparks is just like Stephen King, but in a very different way. Stephen King is one scary SOB. The things that his twisted brain come up with are just mental. Mr. Sparks is the same way when it comes to love. He, apparently, had his heart physically ripped out of his chest by the great love of his life, and then was made to watch as she rode off into the sunset with an uglier, richer man.
I know the score with Mr. Sparks. I'm not stupid. I have read the books. I finally stopped reading the books a few years back when it became apparent that I was a masochist. I would lay in bed, sobbing uncontrollably for hours at a time after being forced into falling in love with whatever couple it happened to be this month, only to watch as one of them dies a horrific, effing death while the other becomes a shell of a person.
His newest "hit" has only further depressed me, and for that, I would like him to reimburse me for the therapy that I will be needing. "The Best of Me." Nice, happy title, right? NO. The following text messages show you the roller coaster of emotions Mr. Sparks has subjected me to:
As in all great love stories, we encounter child abuse, childhood cancer, oh, and DEATH, the death of another loved one, the separation of true love, parents trying to break kids up, alcoholism, more child abuse, followed by vengeance, followed by best friends being shot to death on accident, a prison stint, car accidents, fathers murdering their sons, children needing heart transplants, more death and divorce. I mean, if this is what Mr. Sparks believes love is, he is one effed up SOB.
My heart now lays on the floor, being ripped out of my chest, spat on and stomped on. With that, I have one question for Mr. Sparks: who hurt you?
Permanently emotionally scarred,
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