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A man of brilliance once wrote a novel that truly astounded a person, but also made them question idiotically as well.
Imagine reading a book. A type of book that you cannot keep away and are in need of finishing it till you reach the page of all the bullshit the author writes about thanking their loved ones and family for being the 'true' inspiration behind their book.
Quite long and tiring, isn't it?
However, you are reading a book that you are utterly addicted to, knowing that you can taste the ending at the tip of your tongue, and your excitement rising up.
You think that the book will end fantastically, leave an impact on you and will forever stay that way. Until you open the book once more and remember as to why you read it in the first place.
Instead, the book ends quite differently. It does not end the way that you want, and you might just say that it was an enormous plot twist that was not at all needed.
It frustrates you. It practically murders the entire book! And you wish that you have never, ever, touched that book in your entire life because it just completely wasted your time.
Yet, however, those books that make you want to punch the wall and rip the book in tiny little pieces and feed it into the fire? Well, let me just say that those type of books, are the best ones you could possibly read.
Also, the amounts of bullshit throughout the book are what makes it so phenomenal as well.
"So, the reason that you have called me in the middle of the night is, that you have just realized that Gatsby died?" My friend Elijah says with a yawn through the phone.
"I just cannot believe it," I groan, pacing around my bedroom with furiously. "I mean he's the main character!" I shout into the phone.
"Jeez man, take it down a notch, will you? I'm still not fully wide awake."
"Sorry," I whispered, forgetting that I did in fact, call him at one in the morning. "I'm just confused, Elijah."
"Confused with what exactly?" he sighs.
I blow out a deep breath, raking my fingers through my hair. "Gatsby is dead Elijah."
"Mhm," he hums.
"Do you know who else has bloody died in the book?" I shout.
"My sleep schedule?" he responds, which I scowl right back.
"Not that," I scoff. "Myrtle and George Wilson!"
"And I care because?" he questions with annoyance.
"Because you're my friend," I answer back with a smile, although I know for sure he can't see this smug smile on my face, so I quickly get rid of it.
"As of right now, you're not my friend." Knowing that he heard the shock expression through my voice, he continues. "But, you can obtain the spot of being my friend if you end this call, and please Oliver, let me go back to sleep."
"That's a horrible way to beg," I chuckle, although he doesn't at all.
"I wasn't begging, it was a demand," he says sternly, which by now, means that if I don't end this call in a matter of seconds, he is for sure going to beat my ass the following day.
"As much as I would love to pour out my thoughts of this book, I'm begging to get the hint that you don't really want to hear any of my thoughts, do you?"
"Oliver.." he groans.
"So I thought. Good night Elijah," I smile, taking the phone away from my ear as I press the button to end the call. Massaging the back of my neck, I walk to my bedside table, perfectly placing my phone where it has always been since I've gotten it. Close to my charger, and my pack of cigarettes.
"Such a bad habit," I tsk, shaking my head with disappointment as I stare at the small carton box. Filled with only six more cigarettes, a label on the outside that tells me all the dangers of smoking, yet to be fair, never really put an effect on me. I still continue to smoke, knowing the possible consequences that I will get if I continue.
"I hate you," I tell my pack of cigarettes, hating at how it's just sitting right on my bedside table, giving me the absolute deadliest look. It doesn't even have eyes, yet sadly, it is deadly to a homo-sapien. One, like myself.
"I do love you though," I talk back, which must be a bit odd considering a seventeen-year-old boy is talking to his pack of cigarettes in his room, in the middle of the night.
I wonder what my mum would think if she walked in on me, and saw this whole disaster of a scene. It could be worse. I could be butt naked.
"Screw it," I muttered, grabbing the pack as soon as the words have left my mouth.
In anger of my weakness, I walk to my window, grabbing a small stool as I sit onto it, and push open the window sash until I feel the cool air sneak into my room. In a quick hurry, I open my pack and grab a cigarette.
Throwing the pack onto the floor I grab my lighter from my jean pocket and light the cigarette, finally placing it in my mouth, and sucking the many consequences that this cigarette carries. Within a good five seconds, I take the cigarette out and blow the smoke away, making tiny little holes that amuse me.
"What a sick person I am," I laugh at my own insult, knowing that every word I said was the truth. I spoke the truth. I always did. To myself, and to others, I was indeed, brutally honest. Sure it did hurt people in the end, made them furious, it made them cry, but wouldn't it be better to hear the truth and not the lie? Even though the truth hurts, the lie will hurt you more.