But whenever I read something so badly written, I go, "Oh shit, is my writing this bad?" Because I know I have a habit of long awkward sentences, and I know I need to work on it. But these are like....
By now she was halfway through the narrow, sparsely furnished living room, heading into the safety of the very small jerry-built kitchen, with its squeezed-in mini refrigerator, two-burner stove, tiny oven, and an outsized, badly chipped, probably pre-war like the rest of the building, porcelain sink deep enough to wash babies as well as dishes.
See? Like that.
Coffee turned into a three-week miniaffair spread out over two months. Definitely rebound stuff. [Elizabeth] cried after every orgasm. How embarrassing, but he pretended not to notice.
OH MY GOD. First of all, Elizabeth Wakefield is too uptight to even ever have an orgasm. But if she did, she'd totally cry.
It was still early enough to call her best friend, the only friend she still had from Sweet Valley, Bruce Patman.
WHAT THE F'ING F? Elizabeth's only friend in the world is BRUCE???
Oh, man, I don't know if I'll be able to wait for next March.
And Nicholas Morrow better be in this, dammit.