The one where I complain about a book nobody forced me to read

No, not 50 Shades of Grey. I think it’s safe to say that horse is now dead as a doornail and buried in a 50 feet deep grave. I’m done discussing that monstrosity. No, the book I’m referring to in the title would be The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides.

I had such high hopes for this book. How could I not? I must’ve read The Virgin Suicides at least 5 times. I loved Middlesex. And then there was this… this… thing. I don’t even know what else to call it. If there’s anyone who should be able to relate to a  semi-rich girl’s ordinary ‘white girl problems’ it’s me, and I… Well, I just don’t. Not when the main character keeps yammering on about the books she reads for her semiotics class. The whole thing reads like a pompous, self-important English paper and I just want to cry and give up.

But I won’t. Because I have issues, and not finishing books is a no-no for me. Plus, finishing it would be one more goal set in motion, and that should be an award in itself. So I’ll stick it out.

Pray for me, please. And send chocolate.



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