The story had potential. The characters had so much potential. I love the concept, the Fuckedupsville of drugs, death, psycho-art, and self-destruction. I wanted to be sucked into it like an alcoholic, chain-smoking, delusional crackhaggot a la Hunter S. Thompson or Jim Morrison. Unfortunately, the purple prose killed it. Sometimes it reads like abbreviated text messages (including acronyms: I miss u; I love you; just tell me.). Sometimes it exaggerates sentiment with bizarre out-of-context metaphors. Carter’s voice is like angels dancing on ice-cream. I breathe. Sob. Breathe.The extent at which the POV ornately and abstractly embellishes her perceptions keeps you on the outside of her fucked-up world, looking in, and not feeling a damn thing. She narrates in dissociative musings. You know what she's thinking, you know why she's thinking it, but you really don't give a fuck. It feels like she's forcing her narration, structuring the language to sound cool, rather than letting you into her life to experience the story with her. The narrative voice is detached and her flustered mind wanders without purpose. But it wasn't just lack of character depth that put me off. The manner in which this is limned gives the Craft of Writing a middle-fingered salute.Punctuation, dialogue tags, and basic grammar are optional, and when a semblance of technical structure makes an appearance, it follows no rules. Complete sentences are a minority. This example is the essence of the staccato writing.I cum. Again and again. Night. Day. He passes out. Moon and stars. The sun in the dawn. White bed spreads. White walls.There's a lot of drama, and it would be really good drama if you aren't completely desensitized by the squawking noise of her words.