Sometimes I know a book is not for me, and yet I keep reading. Sometimes I want to see if the story pulls itself away from the ditch my brain has shoved it into, but the reality is that happens rarely. Not because I am mean or terrible or even prescient. Okay, I'm a little bit prescient. Because not about the world, just about stories.
So sometimes my brain is like nope, and I'm like no, we judged too fast and my brain is right because the signs of a thing I will not like are already there.
But sometimes I keep reading anyway. And it occurred to me that sometimes reading is escape, but sometimes the escape I need is to be mad at something terrible. So reading a book I know is going to make me mad feels like control. It's making me mad, but I knew it was going to make me mad, and so I am mad because of this and only this. *Ignores the entire rest of the world*
And I am not a professional psychologist, but just like folks exploring their sexuality often focus on celebrities because you get to gush and squee and yet it is entirely expected for this person to never call you, never show up, never speak directly to you. So you have signed on to a one sided relationship.
And similarly me reading a book that is making me mad lets me be mad, and then put the book away. And sometimes that is what I need.