As I loomed over my novel written by such an exquisitely pathetic author that I have never heard of, my mind began to drift towards those topics that would normally not be discussed in the memoirs of that author. It was not a wave of realization of my existence or any reflection upon my current state of being, but instead an utter repulsion towards the incredibly debilitating scripture that Mrs. Nafisi provides in her work. But yet, as my thoughts progress, I peer deeper into her writing in hopes that her experiences might provide me with some insight into the inner turmoil of my own mentality. But alas, it had only devoured whatever scrap of light that still glimmered in the dark recess of my consciousness. Such as it was, stories of Iranian women secretly reading novels did not appeal to me; neither were their attempts to stand out and rebel against their government in subtle and private ways. But wait, perhaps I may be prejudiced against her since the start, which may provide a reason for my failure to realize her messages. But, that can't be it. I actually believed that there was something worth reading in the bland, cream colored text plastered with two women huddled around a book. One glance at their intense interest in whatever the bullshit they were reading made me realize that such useless matters are of no importance to me. Frankly, I did not care for their escape from reality. It was my own reality that was at stake here, and I did not want any Iranian women reading Lolita in Tehran having to do with any of it. If I wanted to "rebel" in the same way they did, I might as well have rendered myself helpless in a narcotic bliss. Alas, I could do no such thing, as my conscience would not allow me to perform such a blatantly pathetic and unhealthy act. Much like ingesting wholesome morsels, I would prefer to stick with my regimen of junk food and SoBe to provide me with my natural high, instead of some scraps of paper containing words written about someone reading other books. What a paradox. A book about other people reading other books. I mean, normally such an idea would be a monument towards the ingenuity of the human mind, but in this case, Mrs. Nafisi fails miserably. Not only does she take the recipe for success and defiles the sanctity of such an idea, but she also throws into the cauldron her own snakes, scorpions and whatnot to create her demonic stew of insipid blight. Such are the ways of those who force others to suffer under their politically incorrect method of brainwashing. But I believe I have spoken long enough. In terms of the idiot, I would usually say "don't believe everything you read," but the idiot who would really listen to that would just not believe what I just wrote. What a Catch-22. So, there's not much I can do except exposing those who have not suffered a glimpse into the evils of reflectional memoirs, which Mrs. Nafisi has demonstrated most brilliantly. Please take caution of such texts, for sometimes the reason that the reader fails to comprehend the author's text is simply due to the cause of the author not understanding her own thoughts. To this I will add the notoriously and world renowned idiot Huan Huan's own words as explanation: "How can Mark know what I'm doing if I don't know what I'm doing?" Ah...such pathetic behavior is so feasibly simple to discover these days, as Sailorman Jeff can also demonstrate for us in his purchase of a Playstation 2 for the sole purpose of playing DDR. If you don't know him, then you wouldn't understand. But then again, you still might. Much like Leon Shram's infamous Exposure Equation, the endless cycle of purposeless composition can never be completed. It's existence falls outside of time, and is yet timeless in itself.