20 Struggles All Book-Lovers Know

20 Struggles All Book-Lovers Know

Too many books? Yeah, right.
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There are people who like to read, and then there are people who love to read. Although everyone goes through reading slumps, you always find yourself coming back to books because they're amazing. Here are 20 things you've definitely experienced if reading was your home.

1. You're always advertising reading to your friends

It's great, you just have to find the right book and you'll be hooked.

2. Sometimes you buy too many to keep up with

They keep piling up and you're trying to keep up, but you're not sure you can.

3. You keep getting more books anyway

Yard sale books are basically a steal, you can't turn them down.

4. You love the library

Even though you basically have your own library at home.

5. You respect Hermione's hustle

That girl had so much knowledge at the tips of her fingers and she took advantage.

6. The phrase "too many books" doesn't exist to you

Can there be too much happiness? I think not.

7. Nothing can distract you when you're in the middle of reading

You've got your groove on.

8. A book is a great gift for you

It's all you really need, especially if someone gets a title you've been waiting for.

9. You never get rid of your old books

The Harry Potter series? Still got em. The billion other series you read in middle school? Also still got em.

10. You're always waiting on book releases

As soon as you here the date your favorite author is releasing a new book you mark it on your calendar.

11. Matilda was also your girl

Characters who read like that are rare, but they are gems.

12. You reread your favorite books constantly

There's something new to notice every time.

13. You wish you could re-read books for the first time again

Rereading is great, but there's something about the first read rush that can't be replicated.

14. Taking a trip = reading time

Car sickness can take a backseat to the novel you've been waiting to get your hands on.

15. Beach day = beach reading

You can even take an aesthetic picture for your Snapchat.

16. Sometimes you just need alone time

With your books.

17. You can't pick your favorite

There's too many greats, it just depends on the day.

18. You're kind of a reading snob

As annoying as it is, you can't watch the movie without reading the book.

19. You've taken an aesthetic book pic

Do it for the 'gram.

20. You get a little judgmental

You just want to be able to talk about your favorite books with your favorite people.

Cover Image Credit: https://unsplash.com/search/books?photo=4QTfjewH4RU

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Dear Shondaland, You Made A Mistake Because April Kepner Deserves Better

"April Kepner... you're not average"
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I'll admit from the first time we were introduced to April in Season 6, I didn't like her so much. I mean we hated the "Mercy Westers" in the first place, so how could we see the potential in the annoying, know-it-all resident that was trying to compete with our beloved Lexie Grey.

But then, we saw her come face-to-face with a killer and thought maybe she had potential.


We then saw her surprise everyone when she proved to be the next trauma surgeon in the making and we were intrigued.

Notice how none of these stories had anything to do with Jackson Avery. Not that we didn't love her with Jackson, but for whatever reason you've chosen to end their very popular relationship. Suddenly, you think that April is not worth further exploration but you've forgotten one simple thing. We fell in love with her before "Japril" was ever in the picture.

We love her because her story was unlike the others and she had one of the best character developments on the show. She wasn't damaged like Meredith Grey or Alex Karev who have been on their journey to become all whole and healed, but she still had to fight hard to be taken seriously. Her story has so much potential for future development, but you've decided to throw it all away for "creative reasons."

I'm sorry, but there's nothing creative about doing the exact same thing you've done to all the other characters who have left the show. We've endured the loss of many beloved characters when you chose to write off George, Henry, Mark, and Lexie. We even took it when you did the unthinkable and wrote McDreamy out of the show - killing off one half of the leading couple. (WHO DOES THAT???)

But April Kepner? Are you kidding me?

She may no longer be with Jackson, but she was so much more than half of Japril. While most of us hate that Jackson and April are over, we probably could have dealt with it if April was still on the show. Now they're done and you think there aren't any more stories to tell about her character. Why? Because she'll just get in the way of Jackson and Maggie?

How could you not see that she was way more than Jackson's love interest?

She's so much more than you imagined her to be. April is the headstrong, talented trauma surgeon no one saw coming. The farmer's daughter started off an ugly duckling who became a soldier because she needed to be one and turned into one big beautiful swan who constantly has to fight for her coworkers and family to see her as such.

She's proven to be a soldier and swan on many occasions. Just take giving birth to her daughter in a storm on a kitchen table during an emergency c-section without any numbing or pain medication as an example. If she wasn't a soldier or a swan before, how could she not be after that?

Yet, you - the ones who created her - still see her as the ugly duckling of a character because she always had to take the backseat to everyone else's story and was never allowed to really be seen.

But we see her.

She's the youngest of her sisters who still think of her as the embarrassing little Ducky no matter how much she's grown.

This swan of a resident got fired for one mistake but came back fighting to prove she belongs. Not only did April Kepner belong there, but it was her talent, her kindness, her strength that made her Chief Resident. This simply wasn't enough for Dr. Bailey or her other residents so she fought harder.

She endured the pressure but always ended up being a joke to the others. When she was fired yet again, your girl came back a little shaken. She doubted herself, but how could she not when everyone was against her.

Despite everyone telling her she couldn't, she did rise and no one saw her coming because she remained in the background. She went off to Jordan broken and came back a pretty risky trauma surgeon.

We've watched for years as she was handed promising stories that we never got to see fully develop because she was in the background. We never got to see her rise. We get the beginning and the end, but hardly ever the middle.

I thought we were finally going to have an amazing story arc in season 11 when she loses Samuel, but what did we really get? Two or three episodes of her coming to terms with the loss of her baby and then April's disappearance from the show while she's grieving off screen so that Dr. Amelia Shepherd can shine her first season on the show. Where is April's life-changing surgeries? What does April get? She's background music.

Now what?

It's season 14 and we finally get the story we've been waiting 9 years for! We get Dark April and her crisis of faith. A story arc all Christians can appreciate. Here's the chance for real character development in the foreground, but wait...

Before her story is even wrapped up, you announce that this season will be her last. So we're forced to realize that the only reason we're getting this story now is that you're writing her off.

No matter how you end it, it's not going to do her story justice. If you kill her off to end her crisis of faith story, you're not reaching the many Christians who watch the show. If you have her leaving Seattle and taking Harriet with her, you didn't know April. If you have her leaving Seattle and abandoning Harriet, you really didn't know April. So anyway you choose to end her story, you lost out on one great character.

You messed up.

Both April Kepner and Sarah Drew deserved better.

Cover Image Credit: YouTube

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What If God Was A Murderer?

A short story.
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I enter the living room to find him and the newfound wonder of how a room meant for living could be filled with so much decay. Sweat stains attack him, wrapping around his underarms and under his stomach and chest, forming little pools of water made for cockroaches to splash around in. There is a brown stain on his white tank top, presumably from where chewing tobacco dripped down his face; vile, but I suppose I must count myself lucky that he’s never lived up to the name of the shirt. I pray that day will never come. I see remnants of the stuff dangling from his open mouth as he inhales and exhales.

Empty chip baggies and snack wrappers and beer bottles litter the floor in a way that would make both hoarders and environmentalists cry. He grunts slightly, coughs as if he was much older than thirty and shakes a series of crumbs off himself as he turns on his side and starts snoring. A wet dog.

I shuffle to the kitchen, feeling both heavy and light, empty and full, turn on the tap and fill a glass with cloudy water. I can hear his body in the living room groaning under the weight of his idiocy and five beers a day. Mostly the second thing.

He is snoring loudly when I enter. I turn off the T.V., remove the remote from his stomach and heave the water, breaking like crappy meth against his face.

“What the fuck!” he barks as he sputters and splashes around in his open womb of a chair: a mess of water, human and dissolved food particles just waiting to start crying and screaming. He spats some water out of his mouth and brushes his now wet hair backwards into an Elvis meets waterpark kind of look.

“What the actual fuck!” he barks again, as if the repetition of the words would make me respond any differently. He stumbles out of the chair, knocking food off his stomach and crunching some wrappers under his bare and hairy toes. For a moment, I think he is going to trip over the coffee table before he catches his balance by leaning back to spit out the remainder of his tobacco into a metal pail near the chair. He wanted to feel like he was in one of those old western movies but always managed to fuck it up. I find myself staring into the saliva and the chewed up chew in the bottom of the pail. It's like an aquarium tank, complete with exotic creatures swimming around in the too small too dirty waters.

“Are you going to answer me, or are you just going to fuckin'— ” He cuts himself off when he sees that I am not paying attention, “Hey, bitch, you there?” He starts snapping in my face like he’s trying to call a dog.

"Don't fucking snap at me!" I get up in his face and start snapping back at him, somewhere between anger and trying anything to make him see me. Then, almost pleading, “And yeah, I’m here.”

“I sure the fuck hope so. Why the hell did you do that?” he asks while trying to pick chip particles out of the chair cushions. He seems to be half present in the conversation and half present in the chair. La-Z-Man patent pending.

“You know why,” I mutter.

He slumps back down, letting out a small sigh as he does. “Babe,” he beckons me over to him and tries to dry his face with his wife beater, “Babe, we’ve already talked about this; we are fucking done with it. I’m fucking done with it. It’s over; it happened. Get the fuck over it already. We are stuck with it now.”

“Well, I still want to talk about it,” I snap back.

He sighs and reaches for the remote, “What is there left to talk about? It happened already. It’s done.”

I look down at my stomach and run my hands over it, feeling what was once there “Yeah, it’s done.”

“Then what the fuck do you want to talk about?”

“I want to talk about me; I didn’t want this. I never wanted any of this.” I shout in a whisper.

“You wanted me. And, there is no ‘you,’ we've talked about this. There was never a ‘you’ or a ‘me’ or even an ‘us’ if we are being fucking pansies about it. There was never anything there. But, it’s different now.”

He flicks on the T.V., no longer looking at me. His face is dry now, but the blood that I see on his hands cannot be wiped off by any garment, no matter how violent or persistent. He’s a murderer.

“You made me do it. I didn’t want to. I never wanted to.”

“I didn’t make you do shit.”

“Bullshit.”

“Come on, babe. Calm the fuck down, it’s no big deal. Let's just call this a misunderstanding, and say it’s over now. We took care of it.”

“Took care of it? We took care of it? We would’ve taken care of it if you had just—”

“Just what?! What could we have just done? It happened. You know better than to go against His plan anyway. I'm done talking about this.”

“Well, I’m not!”

He stands up now, his body rumbling as he does, a contraction of muscles and flesh pushing his frame to stand tall. Taller than me. Looming.

“This conversation is over,” he says without emotion, “It’s over. There’s nothing left to talk about.”

“You’re a monster.”

“If anything, you are! When are you going to get it through your thick fucking skull that this isn’t about you?!” he screams, veins pulsating with beer warmed to body temperature and diluted with blood; an IV full of alcohol connected to his throat. I feel small.

“Then who is it about? Who? I was not ready for this. It certainly wasn't about me. Then, there's you,” I mime looking around the room with my hands, at the garbage, at the food, at him. "Clearly- clearly this isn't about you either." Tears are streaming down my face, mingling with the food and wrappers on the floor, creating a sea turtle’s worst nightmare: the modern ocean. "Who is it about, then? Who?" I am hysterical now, screaming, a banshee involved in mime.

He smacks me once across the face. Finally living up to the name of his shirt. The sting feels familiar, but lukewarm from wounds of the paste. It feels like my stomach feels. Pain.

I clutch my cheek in shock, feeling the blood rushing up from my stomach to my face, feeling the spot where his wedding ring broke the skin in a kind of twisted serpentine betrayal. He only stands there, looking at me and then back at his hands and back to me. Then he looks back to his beer in his spare hand. Me in one, the bottle in the other. He chooses the other.

He looks at me and reaches as if to touch me but then backs away himself. Then, always in a whisper “It’s about Him.” He quietly snaps these words at me and up towards the ceiling before turning back to the T.V.

He slumps back into his chair, the crinkling of the leather breaking the silence and the pain. He looks back to the T.V. and snaps back in place. He laughs at something on the monitor while I stand speechless. Alone.

There is a crash of something falling from the other room and I run over to it. The source of the noise is crying, now. I reluctantly start breastfeeding while he sits in the other room, watching television and thinking about God. I didn’t want this. As she suckles, I feel myself dying. I glance over to him in the other room, sucking down another beer.

Cover Image Credit: Pexels

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