I haven’t posted any recent book reviews because, honestly, I’m ashamed of myself. I didn’t realize it was possible for reading to make me stupider (holy shit is that actually a word?), but since reading the Shopaholic series, I have regressed to a 1st grade reading level. This issue is backed by the fact that in my last two blog entries, I have confused “conscience” and “conscious,” as well as “taunt” and “taut.” I need to start over, become an abecedarian (and I only know that word because of Word of the Day).

Kinsella is a pretty terrific writer, I’ll admit. She’s easy to read, funny, and has flawless style. So how the fuck did she create a literary monster like Becky Bloomwood/Brandon?

And furthermore, why the fuck did I read the entire series?

Anyway, Becky blunders through life like a little girl, completely unable to face her problems, tell the truth, or deal with the consequences of her idiot actions. Yet, every grossly overblown problem somehow works itself out, seemingly by luck. I have absolutely no idea how she managed to build a relationship with a brilliant millionaire, but hey, it gives hope to a poor, single, empty-headed girl like me.

Maybe if I irrationally spend money (Lasik surgery), ignore my problems (bleeding knife wound in my thumb right now), and burn all my bridges, I too can marry a rich, handsome, understanding husband!

Except in my scenario, my husband turns out to have a secret cellar filled with bestiality videos starring himself.

Shopaholic Series – Sophie Kinsella

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Not so much a good time.

So here’s where I truly hang my head in shame, because I started reading this literary prize:

Legacy of Silence – Belva Plain

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I’ve always been confused between Belva Plain and Mary Higgens Clark, because aren’t they the same author? Spewing out average stories about middle-aged women growing up on a farm, tending to husbands, washing diapers, and falling in love with war heroes? Not that I’ve read any Higgens Clark, it’s just the book covers all look the same. And you know what they say about judging a good book by its cover: completely accurate assessments, all the time.

My Mother forced me to read this book. She slapped me in the face, tied me to a chair, and pried open my eyelids with Scotch tape, and forced me to read this book.

And you know what? I enjoyed it.

I haven’t read a good war story in ages, and for some reason I have a fascination with all things painful. Like this bleeding knife wound in my thumb that I can’t stop picking at.

Light, good character development and a considerable amount of action.
Now excuse me while I go read some Vonnegut.

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