Again, I don’t have time to do get into this too far, but the review for Dear John‘s here.

My last job was at an independent bookstore. For a year and a half, I processed all our incoming used books. The last year I was there, I handled both the new and the used. Nicholas Sparks novels passed through my hands about fifteen million fucking times, and every one of them looked fucking stupid.

Dear John was slightly less stupid than I expected, mostly because it subverted my expectations for their romance. I can pretty well guess if I tried to read one of Sparks’ books I would need to be hospitalized for severe paper-related hand trauma after trying to tear it into its component atoms. But my overall take on him has been revised upwards from “execrable” to “dopey.”

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