Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.
The person who wrote this is a 21 years old guy. That is a pretty amazing fact to me. I guess if you can write, you can write. Age has nothing to do with it; nothing has anything to do with it but that writerly thing in you that makes you write (and write).
A friend forwarded this article to me last night. As I read it, my heart-beat felt more pronounced in my chest – you know it is true because it is almost too cheesy for me to say even if it is. And I may be a lot of not-so-good things, but never cheesy. At least not in written words.
A great read. I like it. A lot.