Confessions Of A Toxic Reader

I love reading. Deeply. Passionately. Unwell-ly.

Unfortunately, I’m also the problem.

Here are my most toxic traits as a reader.

If you say one annoying thing, you’re dead to me.

I don’t care about your growth arc.

You could save a village later and I’ll still be like, “Remember when you were rude on page two?”

There’s a version of me who reads everything I own.

She’s calm, organised, and drinks tea without burning her tongue.

I’m not her.

I’m just funding her lifestyle.

Why risk disappointment when I can revisit emotional damage I already trust?

People act like this is a crime.

I call it emotional risk management.

My Innerverse appreciates advance warning before entering volatile territory.

Not just “Oh that was disappointing.”

No.

I feel betrayed.

I gave you my time.

My brainpower.

My good lighting.

“This will change my life.”

It doesn’t.

It’s about a man named Chad who needs to communicate better.

Healthy balance is not part of my brand.

So, it’s never just ‘one more chapter’ before bed.

And yet, despite all of this, I still believe I’m an excellent reader.

Which is kind of beautiful in a delusional sort of way.