seriously??

I must rant about a serious problem.

Dude, I am SICK of reading chick lit books where the author blabs on about her personal issues through her MC. I don’t mean a funny, reasonably neurotic MC who wonders how she would escape her office building if the cute UPS guy turns out to be a native Canadian terrorist hell-bent against Americans for our insistence that “you’re just like us, only you talk funny.” Sure, to date, there’s no record (that we know of!) of Canadian terrorists who want to kidnap Americans for sponsoring The Red Green Show on PBS, but that’s beside the point.

My point is, neuroses made funny is, well, funny! Neuroses completely subverting my escapist fun is COMPLETELY IRRITATING.

I started reading this book called The Corset Diaries. It just seemed like some silly fun. And it was actually funny initially...but then the MC has ALL these issues about her weight and it fell into this completely ridiculous cliche about the supposed fat girl (who’s all of a size 12 like every other woman in the world) and the hot guy who thinks she’s really beautiful, but she absolutely won’t accept that. (And, sidenote, men hate that crap, so I can no longer like a fictional hot guy who puts up with being rejected because the MC is too much of a stupidhead to let the hot guy fancy her.)

It got SO gag-worthy in one scene. The hot is guy is totally trying to mack on her, and the MC actually says something completely retarded to him like, "no, I can't...you can't be attracted to me because I'm chubby…don’t kiss me, it’s too personal…." and totally rejects him. WHAT?? Just fook the man fer crap's sake, he's a hot British guy! When did getting “too personal” with a hot British guy become a bad thing?? Hypothetically in my happy little fictional sandbox, that is. No dear, I have no intention of getting personal with a hot British guy for real. I promise. Besides, I don’t actually know any hot British guys. (Ha! I kid! Smoochies!)

"....but you're so beautiful...what a woman should look like...." "But no, I'm so fat...you can’t want me…." Oh HURL HURL HURL If Clive Owen showed up and wanted to rock my world (hypothetically, love of my life!), my cellulite and muffin top would be the LAST things on my mind. If Clive Owen doesn’t care about my cellulite, why should I? (Now there’s a self-esteem builder for you!)

***Disclaimer: If anyone reading this (ghosts? ether elves? my evil twin?) happened to lurve the aforementioned book, I apologize for any offense that your crazy reading tastes cause you.***