I'm going to stop thinking I can read nonfiction books that don't come with a "j" for "juvenile" in front of the Dewey numbers. I just can't finish them. I got about halfway through this book before I realized I was bored out of my mind. I mean, the premise sounds so awesome; it's a collection of monologues from ordinary folks about relationships they've been in. And if there's anything I enjoy, it's reading about other people's deeply personal thoughts and feelings, ESPECIALLY re: their failures.
The problem here was that too many of the interviews were like, "Oh, I just loved how she loved God" (which isn't my thing) or "Oh, I loved him, he was so hot, but he did too much crack" (also not my thing) or "Well, she cheated on me three times with my bff, my dad, and my brother, but I think if I had been then the person that I am now, we could've made it work. I'll always love her."
I picked it up because I read an excerpt, one of the interviews, in Slate (my thing. Totally my thing), about a polyamorous couple (not...exactly my thing? But totally awesome to read about). It was kind of dirty (hey, don't judge me), and there was lots of swearing. All good love stories include a lot of swearing. My own personal love story includes crazy-obscene amounts of swearing. But, as it turns out, that interview was the ONLY INTERESTING ONE IN THE BOOK.
Uh, okay, in the first half of the book. I'm not finishing this one.