as an emo-punk with fake black hair, a thesaurus and too much eyeliner. This was the most overly romanticized sucide fantasy that I have ever read.

Death could not have alluded to sex more prominently if the main character had fucked the grim reaper. I was pretty tired by the end of this book just from wading through all of the delusion. If I could say one thing to the author, it would be
“Put up or shut-up.”

It’s obvious that there is some deep-seated suidide fantasy going on and this book was her way of working through it. Damn though! This kind of literature is supposed to be theraputic and I have known for ages that I feel better about hard times if I write about them. I just don’t think that it should have become an award-nominated novel open for public consumption. I never got that ‘Yes, this author understands me!’ kind of feeling that non-judgemental relations of suicide literature are ‘supposed’ to have. All that I came away with was:

a. Wow, that author needs to work through some stuff
and
b. Wow, literature that proudly boasts Canadiana is SO pretentious and dull.

Come on Canada, let’s get some fresh talent flowing. This is embarrassing.

Well it wasn’t bad.
Some of the situations and dialogue were fairly endearing. The wit is clever and well-used.

I just couldn’t stand the choppy style. It was largely focused on the love life and times of a single heroinne, but suddenly an unrelated story about a completely different person flares up and then burns out.

There needed to be several other short stories fitting in the theme or the other characters needed to be dropped. The focus in this book was just bizarre.

I would reccomend it to someone who just wanted to read any old story on a long bus ride or something.

It’s strange and yet totally believeable that the last movie I have seen that made me laugh this much was ‘Shaun of the Dead’ (by and starring the same people).

There’s just something about British humor. Somehow it goes way farther than American humour without ever having to sink lower.

There’s not much to say about it. You’d have to be SO prudish not to laugh at this movie.

A nice, quick read. It was more of a long short story.

I usually hate short stories because I feel like they’re over too quickly to have established good depth, character and situation. That was not the case with this book.

It’s a pretty good ‘growing up’ story. I say read it.

In a lot of ways I could completely relate to the drama of ‘mixed gender’ friendships portrayed in this book. It seems very apparent that the author has been through the agony and misunderstandings involved in trying to be friends where everyone else sees ‘sexual tension’. Unfortunately he really seems to only have experienced friendships that DID have some degree of sexual tension.

In the end the author’s own psychology drives the story to a sort of stale-mate ending. The story is great and it features a lot of laughs and heartache. I could relate to most of it, but I wish the ending had been a bit more hopeful.

Read this book if you’ve ever gone through the frustration of explaining how you are friends with someone from the opposite gender and DON’T plan on ever sleeping with them.

Gad!
This man is so unbelievably talented. He does this all without computers (or mostly without anyways). His style is dynamic and expressive. Dawn has to be one of the most mysterious, intriguing and beautiful ladies in comics. JML seems like a very down-to-Earth, friendly guy. He also seems rediculously modest for someone who I consider in the top ten best all-around comic book artists working today. I would just LOVE to go to DragonCon this year and have him sign my copy.

If you love art involving gorgeous ladies (especially curvy Goddesses) then you just HAVE to check out JML. You won’t be dissappointed. The book is all color, no run-on blabber and features the bulk of JML’s best work of all time.

Ugh!
Just Ugh.

As interesting as it is to learn about history, this book just couldn’t cut the mustard. It was agonizing to wade through the over-comma usage and goofy sentences. I made it to the halfway point in the book in four weeks! Yikes. I’m not usually a slow reader, but I was down to only reading this book when I was commuting and had nothing else to do.
The gimmick of having the story read as Justinian’s aoutobiography was fine, but the interjection of his servant talking to the priest who is reading the autobiography was annoying and redundant. We never hear what the priest is saying so we got things like: “Eh? What’s that brother? You want to know why I told Justinian to kick a puppy? Oh, now you’re coughing.”
Obviously not ex-actly that sentence, but you can imagine how annoying that dynamic got when it interrupted the story every three or four pages. Who would talk like that? Who would just repeat every single sentence that was just spoken to them before replying?

This book was a pain in the ass to read. I’m no masochist, I couldn’t finish it no matter how much I love history. It would’ve been faster to just Wiki Justinian II and learn about the guy online.

Ok. I know that there are a lot of lonely, bored oldah ladies out there, but is this kind of book REALLY what gets them through the day??

It was harder to buy than ‘Murder, She Wrote’. This bumbling old maid is solving mysteries left right and center (even though she SOO doesn’t want to). Are the local cops inept or is it because she’s constantly LYING TO THE POLICE AND TAMPERING WITH THE FREAKING EVIDENCE! Damn!

I didn’t even get to the part where she deals with the bloody towels she found days later on the crime scene that the police somehow missed and she then stashed under her house, fully intending to bring them to the cop shop except she was tired that day after work.

DUH! She was going to get caught with them and become a suspect and then have to cunningly clear her name with some random case-winning information that only she had noticed.

I almost hucked this book in the pool while I was on vacation. Burn it if you see it. Burn your eyes if you read it.

This book needed a much harsher editor. There was no discernible point. It was clearly just a bunch of self-help psychology for the author. I’m all for working out the crappy life in writing so that you understand yourself better and lighten the baggage, but WHY this cathartic lump was made in to a book I just don’t get.

Skip this book.

I was SOOOO in to this book for the first half. It was fascinating and there was a ton of potential. Then it got in to quantum physics and pyschology and philosophy and I found myself thinking: If I WANted to learn this stuff I wouldn’t be reading a fiction novel. It’s like the author is so pround (or just cocky) about knowing this stuff that she had to ramble on about it.

I found the ending disappointing too.

It was an interesting book, but it felt more like three almost entirely separate stories. Intro, text book, strange end.