My imported reviews have lost all formatting, I'll work on fixing them.
I am too lazy to shelf all my books -- because I shelf a LOT, and having to individually select them all on two sites? HA HA NO -- so go for my Goodreads for that (among other) shit.
I literally cannot rate this. It was supposed to be a high rating for me. I mean, it started out at a three and then I finally caved and decided four, but then the fucking ending happened. I resisted throwing the book, because I decided I'd finish the last ten pages and find out whether I still wanted to. I didn't; the epilogue mellowed me out a little. But then I gave into the tears -- and I mean, I gave in. The last few books I read made me sniffle and tear up and wipe tears off my face.
This one made me outright sob. I mean outright outright. I spent all night Thanksgiving Eve -- well, technically it was 3am Thanksgiving Day -- and cried. And cried. And CRIED. Myself to sleep. Because it was supposed to have a happy ending. There was supposed to be joy and help and resolution and...healing, and...but there wasn't. And if I had known it wouldn't end well, I wouldn't have put myself through it at all, because the lives in this book, the troubles of the characters, are some things I myself have seen firsthand and I didn't do anything in real life because I didn't know about it until it was too late but this...this book, was supposed to be a way I could heal, and forgive myself.
But instead I spent all night sobbing into my pillow, having to breathe deeply through my nose around my crying instead of hiccuping to keep my brother in the next room from hearing my anguish. I mean, this book was exhausting to read, okay. It literally took me four and a half hours to read halfway, the first 194 1/2 pages. But I loved it and then...and then? So no. I can't rate this, because out of rage and indignation and blinding pain, I want to rate it one-star. But then I also want to put it on my six-star shelf and wave it high because it really got to me -- even without the horrid closing.
Don't listen to the reviews on the back of this book that call it "funny and satirical". Because it isn't. I mean, I guess it is? But that's definitely not the heart of it. A satire is a thing to make fun of other things, basically, and this is supposed to bring light on the lives of the riches of Fox Glen and drugs and the rich in general and youth in general, and it does, but not really in a light and happy way. Not really in a...satirical way. You know what I mean? A satire is supposed to make you cry, and laugh a little,and be like, yeah, I realize that is a problem, and I'm going to do something about it. Or at least think about it. And want to help. Even if I can't.
IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO FUCKING RIP YOU TO SHREDS. Which is what it fucking did to me.
So no. No. I can't rate this. I'm going to try to forget about it instead.
If you want to be killed by grief and the injustice of this world, go ahead and read it. But steel yourself, I beg of you. Don't be me. Don't spend the entire morning of a holiday crying for a book instead of letting your family drive you to it later ('cause we all know relatives are cruel and the holidays are a joke in themselves). Prepare yourself for devastation.
(As for the book itself...Someone called it wordy. I'm pretty sure that was the point. I loved it, actually. The style and everything. And the characters. For a little while they fool you into believing they're completely different than they actually are, especially the Wellses.)