Cry me a bloody river.

Yes, sometimes you just need to shut the self pity bit and move the fuck on, yeah.

Shit happens with books sometimes.

She looked so appealing.

Took one whiff of her and you are hooked.

She had blurbs that were so tempting.

Other people (smart people) were talking about her.

You love the way she was silent, withholding a gob of unknowns.

Ok, you did see the signs.

You should have seen a red, but deprived of logic you saw green (orange does not count, you just need to slow down, right?)

Then you get down and dirty but then reach a threshold.

What do you do?

Panic?

Trudge on?

Suffer through it?

Feel pangs of insecurity?

Something seriously wrong with your attention span?

Well the beauty of being unattached and having other choices means you just need to moove the fuck on, yeah.

So come on, cry me a bloody river.

Cry me a bloody river.

Cry me a bloody river.

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