Book Purge

Ahhh. So in the midst of moving books onto the faboo new shelves, I made an unsettling discovery.

Chick Lit.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I own Chick Lit. And I'm not proud of it either. As I moved and stacked and shelved, I saw far too many hot pink and lime green spines in the stacks, and I started to pull them. Things with titles like Confessions of a Shopaholic, Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing, and High Maintenance. So I've made a pact with myself. They all go.

I've read one a day this week, they are that fluffy and predictable. Potato chips for the brain. I'm kind of embarrassed to be seen reading them on the subway. It would almost be better if I sat and read the Post instead. How did these women get literary agents at all? These books are pure crap.

I blame the entire unfortunate literary (and I use that term loosely) genre on Helen Fielding.