I’m really bad at keeping in touch with friends. And a touch over caffeinated. AND CANNOT STOP POSTING ON FACEBOOK IN CAPS.
Having surpassed my goal of reading 20 books in 2011, I went all out and set this year’s goal at 100 books.
And I’ve read one so far.
I just finished reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ newest book, The Marriage Plot. I’m a huge fan of his writing (even though I thought The Virgin Suicides was more pretentious than actually good), but this one disappointed me. Maybe because Madeleine’s story hit a little too close to home, but more likely because I was dissatisfied with the ending. While that was probably the author’s aim, I felt the way he ended the book was kinda like “GOTCHA! NOTHING I FORESHADOWED WILL ACTUALLY HAPPEN. The end.”
(That was the most shameful review of Eugenides ever written.)
Keeping with the pretentious literature, I’m reading Kafka on the Shore…and kinda hate it.
You’d been with me for as long as I can remember. When I was five, you were the “bug poop” under my arm the boy down the street made fun of me for. When I was fourteen, you were the annoying blotch that peaked out of every bikini top I tried on. When I was sixteen, you were the reason the first boy I ever
thought I loved called me sexy. You were my favorite little piece of myself…perfectly placed so showing you off in a dress felt flirtatious without being overtly risqué.
In college I noticed you were changing…becoming darker and appearing to split in two. But, since you weren’t a zit or a rash, I (stupidly) ignored you on my visits to the dermatologists. Until this fall. Fed up with 30 second Dr.’s visits I’d wait 2 hours for, I switched doctors. A self-professed “neurotic” Mr. New Doctor insisted on doing a full body check, given my family’s history of skin cancer. And there you were.
Your trick was up. With the words “uh-oh” and “pre-cancerous” it was decided you’d be “snipped off” in early January.
Since you were removed I’ve felt strangely incomplete…not to mention itchy-burny and convinced I’ve contracted MERSA. How could you have been secretly plotting to kill me from beneath my bra? As i signed the form to have you sent out for lab testing, I thought: yours was the worst sort of betrayal…the sort they write Lifetime movies involving infidelity and murder about. I was Valerie Bertinelli, deeply in love with a spouse who made her feel beautiful…but had also taken a contract out on her life.