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Reading Narrative : I Hate Reading

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Reading Narrative
I hate reading.
Scratch that, I hate assigned reading. I know, “hate” is a strong word, but elementary-school-me had strong feelings.
Especially when I was sat at the dining table, cramming hundreds of word in my brain before the next day, the due date for every second grader to read a whopping total of a thousand words. Given we had a few months to do this, but even at a young age I practiced the art of procrastination. This happened frequently during elementary school years, me freaking out, frantically turning pages of book after book. Words turned to squiggles that just got tossed into the dump of useless knowledge in my brain, as I hastily glanced over the pages. Pages with sentences that stretched for miles, with seemingly no end. Sweat beading at my forehead and fingers trembling, the dining room getting smaller and smaller, with that gross old book smell filling the atmosphere, my mind seriously hurt and my eyes strained, whether it be from the mush of words getting shoved into my mind, or my mom scolding me as I tried to read. Something about how procrastinating throughout school would get me working at McDonald’s? I wasn’t sure. I just knew that I hated reading.
Anything that was assigned for us to read was torture. I, the certified smartest girl in third grade, was put in the lowest reading group because I couldn’t care less about Winn-Dixie or Anne Frank. I just couldn’t understand anything I was reading. I couldn’t! It was hard wrapping my
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