I desperately wish I had the creativity to complete this writing in an adequate manner. However, that is not the case. Reading the mundane “novel” that is the Catcher in the Rye has crushed all of my spirit, even more thoroughly than a succubus crushes the resistance of hapless men. I am an empty vessel, hollowed by monotony. Whereas most books fill my mind with new considerations and vibrant emotions, this book takes a different approach– that is, extracting any interest I could possibly feel, and shoving in its place colourless and repetitive recounts of a fictional boy living out his boring life. I would honestly rather own a Moira-only Overwatch account than pick up the Catcher in the Rye ever again. I have never felt so discouraged from reading as I do now. It is an honest worry of mine that the traumatic events of the past few weeks may cause me to develop book-related PTSD. If it is that a god exists in this world, they must be a truly remorseless deity. Were cupid to instead strike hatred into hearts, I would not hesitate to blame him for mine and the Catcher in the Rye‘s relationship, as no mortal power could possibly bring forth such unadulterated emotion as I feel now.