The fact this sloppy rag was let out on public shelves is no surprise given the era of inadequacy in which we have been dumped. But that it was raised as a glistening example of literature, that's the point where my bile starts to boil. Only a few scoops of this dogwater could wet my eyes before I banished it from my sight forever. Sixth Class? Exams? What the fuck are you talking about? Why is this gossip girl trash about high school kids a bestselling novel now?

I can't concentrate on the plot, and part of it's maybe because of the weird indent thing she does to avoid using quotations on speech (copied off other, better writers), but that's not the real reason. What's distracting me is that Halloween mask Sally Rooney calls a face. The slack jaw of Sally's ghoulish visage haunts me at night, blabbering in my ear about Nutella and Leaving Cert results and some other shit I strain to remember under the all-consuming mental effort her loathsome face demands. I slip in and out of dreams in a frenzy, puking up the garbled prattle of a third-rate writer. It tastes like sardines...

I'm sure she tried though. She surely poured over these pages of piss poor prose for months before pushing it out of her heaving muff, which will be the closest she ever gets to labor pains since she's too ugly to be fucked, condom or nay. Yes, Sally Rooney will never find true love because she is a hideous goblin, but at least she can make do with the vacuous false-praise of a literati so worm-eaten and rotten inside that its bowels are almost as hollow as her own womb.