I have an addiction to good books like some people have an addiction to Korean dramas: It consumes my mind and it's hard to concentrate on anything else except when class will end, or when can I finish work so I can have some quiet time to read. I stayed up until 5am this morning to finish Gone Girl by Gillian Fynn. Her androgynous first name made me think she was a male author at first. The book opens up with the point of view of the husband and the voice is captured so perfectly; the right amount of carelessness, apathy, and integrity of a handsome but oblivious American male. It is a love story, but not your typical love story at all. It is an extreme version of real love, though. It captures the nuances of real, quirky, intense love. One of those loves with a lot of personality and idiosyncrasies. And we catch the lovers in a state of numbing deterioration. When you reach the point where the little problems have added up and become a mountain and you both have no more energy to fight.

It is what happens after you say "I do" and run off into the sunset. It is a new perspective. I applaud the author for her self-aware narrative. Her characters become so real that I almost know them, like know how they would react, know how they are like how I know my friends. But you are still left surprised and reeling from the twists, still trying to resolve with yourself how you feel about this. Is this ok? Is this how it should be? I'm still making up my mind if the roller coaster was supposed to end this way. Either way, it was one hell of a good ride.