Right. You can't even get normal, decent guys to read; forget about the bad ones.
But that's not too far from the truth. By 'that' I mean the unrealistic fictional prototype bad boy that has absolutely no grounding in reality, and how this complete fantasy matches up quite well to the fantasy in my head. I may be 30, but I am still a sucker for the bad boy. I am 30, and yet I still hold out for the day that I meet someone who reads (who reads real books). Thank god G wasn't a reader; otherwise, I would be stalking him right now and bombarding him with marriage proposals every other day.
Seriously, although it was cute that he wanted to do a book exchange when we wandered into Books Actually on our first real date, the book that he gave me was so fucking shit that I forced myself to skim just to say that I've read it - and I eventually gave up skimming because I could not take the level of shit anymore. One of the biggest crimes that a book of fiction - I can't even bring myself to call the person who produced the book a writer, or the book a novel - can commit is to be a political statement masquerading as a book of fiction. You either write an op-ed or you write a novel. If you want to write a novel about a serious issue, at least have the decency to be creative, to create interesting characters and not cardboard cut-out mouthpieces for your boring didactic messages. Moreover, I don't think that one pays the novel too much respect if one simply uses it as a channel to recycle a boring and unoriginal political message, one that probably couldn't have been done in a proper academic paper because there is nothing new or original about the said message. Obviously, failed academics should not be novelists. Oh my god, thinking about this book makes me so angry. Reading bad books angers me. And I would name the book so that people could avoid it like the plague, but I don't remember its title and much less its 'author'. And guess what I gave him? The Good Soldier, a.k.a one of the best books ever written in the English language. And then he proceeded to read the Introduction before the novel. WHO DOES THAT? Everyone knows that, when reading a classic for the first time, NEVER READ THE INTRODUCTION. It is not an introduction. It is an analysis of the book, which means it gives EVERYTHING away, including how you're supposed to interpret the book. Obviously I should've latched on to this fatal flaw of his and that would've avoided all the pain and drama that went on for months.
Right, that was one long-ass aside. Anyway, the point is, Jess is such a sexy beast, and wouldn't it be nice if someone like him materialised in front of me sooner rather than later?
I seem to be over my PMS as I have been in a much better mood over the last two days, certainly after I wrote the last angst-filled, boring woe-is-me entry. But I am confused because my period hasn't actually arrived yet and it is stressing me out. I hate being caught with blood on my underwear in some inconvenient location with no access to the things that would make the blood flow least-uncomfortable. I am going to the faculty tomorrow and I would be really annoyed if my period came while I am there because I have stuff to do and I don't have time to leave halfway, walk 20 minutes back, and then accomplish fuck-all. That reminds me...I should equip my backpack with a sanitary pad or two.
I don't even know why I'm writing about my period.
Anyway, John and Raffael read my crappy paper and liked it so I feel less crappy about it. I still don't mind quitting the PhD though...oh wait, I really want to travel in Europe next summer, so I guess I'd better stick around. Oh but I need to write the outline. I wonder if a miracle would happen and it magically wrote itself...
The part in Brideshead Revisited where the characters are caught drunk driving and spend a night in jail is really weird. You can kind of tell that Waugh didn't feel like writing that part because the writing is so...perfunctory. And obviously I have not read the introduction.