I cannot eat. I cannot sleep.
Or maybe “barely” is more suitable a description. I did have a pretty big lunch, but I had nothing but soup for dinner.
Because of a book.
I was still awake around 2:30 this morning, twisting and turning to keep myself from going back and opening the book to read just another paragraph or two.
It’s never good when I bargain with myself.
I managed to sleep eventually. Maybe the realization that I had to wake up freaking early today finally convinced me to put the book down and get some necessary sleep.
The book in question: Libba Bray’s “Rebel Angels”, second book in the Gemma Doyle trilogy.
I can’t explain how it happened, but I haven’t been this obsessed in YEARS.
Blame it on my friend Baboyita, who got me hooked.
Yesterday, I stood up to lean over the partition that separated us, and I said with much conviction: “I’m getting the next two books in the trilogy.”
She lent me the first one, like pushers are wont to do for potential addicts, knowing that I would not be able to resist the temptation.
It would be impossible to ask me for a proper review now. I can’t. I’m much too in love with the characters, daft and irritating they may sometimes be. I love Kartik, the brave but wavering Indian boy with beautiful lashes and kisses that taste of cinnamon. I love Gemma, the annoying and gullible girl with more secrets than anyone should be allowed to harbor.
I love every little inch of the book, and asking me for anything rational at the moment is seriously impossible.
It’s like asking me to explain me why I like Harry Potter, or bubble wrap, or gnawing my fingernails. There are no words.
And now I’m done with this book.
I’m just taking a quick and breathless break to gush, bathe and dive back into my bed with the next installment.