I Hate To Read Books Novels & Stories

For some reason, I couldn't find my voice. I read about love in romance books. They were actually my favorite books to read —which made it pretty ironic that I couldn't bear to hear the topic whenever it was brought up. Why was I comfortable reading about it in books but not when it was mentioned? Probably because reading it was one thing and experiencing it in real life was another. When I read about the feelings associated with love, it intrigued me. That a single four-lettered word could make someone experience a myriad of emotions both good and bad was an utter mystery.

“What are you doing here?” He placed the book on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Reading.” I stared at him. “You?” His eyebrows pulled together. “What’s that supposed to mean?” A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “You hate reading.” “I don’t hate reading.” “Zane, you once told me books were just slow movies.” “And I stand by that.” I shook my head, trying not to smile. There was absolutely no way Zane Jaxon had willingly walked into the library to read.

"I thought you hate bookstore? You hate books remember? You even said it's boring and just for old people." I felt a lightning struck me in the head. Nanlaki ang mata ko dahil sa sinabi nito. Like geee! talagang sinabi yun ni Lady Marina? How could you say that Lady Marina! Books are not boring, and especially not just for old people, okay? Kinilabutan tuloy ako. Me, imagining myself stating that in front of my bestfriends. Naku! ilang sapak at hampas kaya ang aabutin ko? baka nga ay ma-ospital pa ako at ma-comatose.

I know it sounded silly or hyperbolic, but it was how I have always felt, even since I was a little boy who didn't understand most of the words I read and would often be seen with a notepad beside me where I put down the words I wasn't familiar with. I have come to realise that it was ineffable— at least, for me— to put in words to anyone all of the reasons why I found reading to be more than just a hobby. I couldn't relate to people who saw reading as just a hobby— to me, it was that and a million other things. All I needed to be pumped at the start of the day was to have my coffee on the table beside me and then a book in my warm hands— there wasn't much I would pick over this.

And I still can't fucking believe I made him, "It was fun." "Liar," he yawns again, "It's not fun. My mom and Auntie try to teach me how to read and I hate it. I don't want to learn." "Why?" I ask and I actually tap his cheek to keep him awake when his eyes roll back. This is not earning me any Best Father awards, but I want to continue this bonding moment, "Tell me why you hate it. Reading is very fun."

We will sleep here together, I concluded, standing up then I went to the shelf where her books were, ignoring the solemn look on her face. “I knew you love books but I didn't know you really loved them,” I muttered, picking a book from the shelf. It was a fantasy romance book. “Why do you constantly and intentionally hate me?” Mia uttered, making me lift my head from the book. Tears already at the brim of her eyes. Those tears. “I don't hate you Mia,” my voice came out in a tired whisper. “I’m just the same to everybody so don't think you're any different.”

He hаtеd Chеlѕеа with a vеngеаnсе, tеllіng him I’d ѕuрроrt thеm оvеr his mighty Arsenal wоuld always touch a raw nеrvе. But then it got me tо thinking about thе tіmеѕ I’d tоld реорlе аbоut books I lоvеd hоw thеу’d brоkе them down аnd rіdісulеd раrtѕ, telling mе thеу were a low star read to thеm.

Isaac chokes out. I smile, whoever—I have a solid idea who it is—gave this to me is going to pay. Oh no, not because they accused me of being a witch and casting a spell on Isaac, or because they accused me of not being his twin. (I'd kill to not even be related to him.) No, they are going to pay because they made me suffer by making me decipher a whole freaking paragraph. The person wrote like, twelve sentences and I had to take like, twenty minutes to read it. I hate reading. I hate it with a burning passion. If I could, I would just not take English altogether. But alas, I can't, so here I am, taking a course I wish I could just burn and send to the depths of—nope—farther than Hell. That'

Kimani I came down those stairs with the worst attitude and I was not even going to pretend otherwise. My head had been pounding since this morning, my throat still felt scratchy from whatever bug decided to make me its home since Friday, and I had been stuck in this house for three days with nothing but medicine that tasted like punishment and television that stopped being interesting by Saturday afternoon. I was miserable and I had every right to be miserable and nobody was going to tell me differently. I gripped the railing as I came down the last few steps, my oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, my braids half pinned up and half doing whatever they wanted. I had not bothered

" says the author. So we don't make a scene, I shake my head and keep my voice quiet and neutral. Not here, at a restaurant run by a member of the pack. It has too many eyeballs and furry fucking ears. "If you knew anything about me, you'd know I don't spend hours and hours in libraries." I despise libraries. I despise reading. I've attempted to do as little as possible since we graduated from high school." "Noted, then," he says, attempting to satisfy me.