John Green


I hate your voice. I hate your reading 
pace for making me listen at the devil’s 
speed
	2x, like I’m another bot 
who came to ruin things and walk fast

totally tuned out. Still a good sport, I
try records you recommend: Sunset Tree,
Tallahassee
	but I think they’re bad
like your maximalist cover art, easily 

interchangeable for a craft beer label
loud and bunk. I hate that my ex and I
had 
	no mutual friends 
so we listened to your book to fill space 

and loved the bit on Dr. Pepper, made 
with no flavor in mind, just taste of air 
from an 
	old-school soda fountain.
We ordered it everywhere and I hate 

that I buy it now because it bottles some
bygone place. Hate my best friend’s fiancé,
you left
	her no tip. I still hate 
her and that overrated cafe more. 

Now I can’t write 

because you took all the best lines about
loneliness and Mario Kart. None left 
for me 
	speechless in the parking lot 
after the chapter on Indiana, not because 

I know the place, but because it recalled
all the other ones, aggressively ordinary
cloying
	and hard to put away like
a book of your bestselling takes. 3 stars.


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