Lucky Afterword

Lucky, by Alice Sebold, was an interesting read... to say the least... The 244 (PATTERN!!!) page memoir chronicles Sebold's rape as during her freshman year at Syracuse, and its aftermath (effects, trial, etc.)

But to tell the truth, it's not worth reading until page 234 - the riveting aftermath begins. Only in those few pages, one really sees how fucked up Sebold's life really became (whether her life would have taken a different turn were it not for the rape is an argument for another time). From a heroin dependency to promiscuity to alcoholism, the aftermath is ironically the most sobering part (lulz; aren't I punny?) of the novel. It was so moving that those rare waves of gratitude came a-coming for the overprotected and 'inexperienced' I have led thus far.

It also made me feel not sorry but just much more aware of all those people I know who may lead an exhilarating but all in all unhealthy and unhappy lifestyle (which I foolishly covet at times). And these are young people who quite literally have the rest of their lives in front of them. There is nothing glamorous about spending one's days slave to the drink, waking up in unknown places, surrounded by violence, and even worse, expecting the violence, the heartache, the pain, and misery.

I refuse to believe that life is supposed to be like that; life is only what one makes it out to be. Call me an optimist, but don't you dare to call yourself a fucking realist.

Read the afterword and discuss it with me. I've gotten to the point where I'm so frustrated that I can't bother with even trying to articulate my thoughts into a comprehensible argument.


I might write a book review like I had orginally set out to do later. No promises.

Oh and I should mention that there is someone in particular that has incurred the frustration. He doesn't know. Nor does he know I care. I don't know if he cares that I care.