I bought 11 books on Sunday, some are shitty, well, most of them are shitty, but I'm enjoying them nonetheless. Currently I'm reading three of them: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (blah, blah blah, "Dead Poet's Society" but with Scotish schoolgirls and an even more obnoxiously pretentious teacher), About A Boy (I'd never read Nick Hornby before, but I'm pretty pleased with him so far), and, the real kicker of the group, Mirror Mirror, by the chode who brought us Wicked, Lost, and that one about Cinderella.
Once I start reading a book I usually won't stop until I'm done with it, at which point it goes back on the shelf, or out on the curb, but I'm finding this piece of crap so hard to slog through, it's making me nuts. Heavy-handed "midieval-style" sex filled dialogue, foreshadowing so overt it makes me want to rip out my eyes and flush them down the toilet, and a convoluted plot that I think this guy thought up while reading The DaVinci Code and taking a shit.
Nonetheless, I am compelled to finish this travesty, for the sole reason that it puts me to sleep at night, at which point I dream fitfully of gooseboys, revolting menstration scenes, and the seven dwarves, who, I shit you not, are named "Blindeye", "Heartless", "Gimpy"," Deaf-To-the-World", "MuteMute", "Bitter", and "Tasteless".