I am not, in theory, a cheesy person.

I shy away from earnestness. Genuine expressions of emotion upset me. The last time I had to have a serious and feelings-based conversation I did everything to prepare for a hermit-esque lifestyle of solitude in the mountains somewhere short of buying a plane ticket (ultimately I recalled that I don't much care for nature).

But all of that changes when I really, truly love a book.

In my head, and to the most trusted people in my life, there is an upper echelon of books I refer to as "the books of my heart." Of the 1,246 books I have marked as read on Goodreads, only 89 are true five stars, and the books of my heart (I really can't believe how corny of a name that is, like how did that come from me, a rock person with Christmas-reject coal for a heart) are a careful selection of even that.

This is a coveted title typically given to the works of Sally Rooney, or dark volumes of adult fantasy, or quirky young adult magical realism.

In short: beautifully written and unique books that mostly take place inside brains, with traces of magic and humor and love.

So this book, a horror-ish novel intensely driven by its narrator's mind that would, if written by a lesser author, be little more than a vessel for its twist, may seem an unlikely choice for that lot.

But it makes sense to me.

Bottom line: I can't think about this book too hard without wanting to read it againagainagain.

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pre-review

my skin is crawling and i want to scream and i think this might be a 5 star read.

review to come / at least 4.5 but who are we kidding

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currently-reading updates

i read the first 20 pages of this last night before i went to sleep and got so scared i had to switch to a romance novel.

i will be reading exclusively in daylight from now on.