I ripped up my first book ever today.

I wasn't planning on doing so, but after having given reading it my best possible shot, the only response available seemed to be to physically tear it apart. So I did. This is the book. I'm not going to go into detail on my views of money and consumer society at this point, it is not necessary.

What is necessary is that I point out your money would be better spent buying a subscription to a bestiality site and ductape for your eyes or even, more appropriately, a box of push-pins you can spread out on your desk before repeatedly smashing your head into it. This supposed advice book is a pile of anti-grammatical butchery of the English language coupled with silhouettes of "sluts" awkwardly juxtaposed with "inspirational" quotes from people who actually had brain cells in their heads. People like Mondrian and Van Gogh, who I'm fairly sure had other things on their minds than gallery space, business cards, and their selling attitude. What the fuck.

It goes through great lengths to tell me what I hafta do to succeed. BOOK. LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. I DO NOT HAFTA DO ANYTHING. There are some things I may be required to do in life, but this shortsighted shallow shitspill of a paperback is not the source of those things, I assure you.

I am slightly ashamed at my violent outburst towards said publication, but only because my well meaning father probably paid for it and I throughly appreciate the gesture.