Last night I finished yet another book (ahhh... I love reading).
The book is aptly titled: Man of My Dreams. It is by Curtis Sittenfeld (of Prep fame). The story isn't nearly as witty as Prep. Nor is it as tightly written. I imagine Sittenfeld had Prep ruminating in the recesses of her mind for many years. Man of My Dreams was dreamed up later and didn't have the luxury of years of tweaking and editting.
That's fine, it was still an entertaining book with glorious lines like "Go on. Go ahead. Give each other chlamydia." You have to love a protagonist that snarks hilarity quietly to no one but the reader.
Despite its entertainment value, I've decided that the onslaught of "Ohhh.... If I could only find the man of my dreams then my life would be perfect" books in my reading repetoire has tapped discontentedness into my bloodstream. Does anyone else experience this acute affectedness from reading? Television and movies momentarily perturb me, but books have a lasting corrosive effect, as if their length errodes my immunity to wishy washy prince charming stories.
I decided enough is enough last night and as I finished Man of My Dreams, I picked up a perfectly acceptable book to transition me out of such a ridiculously repetitive storyline.
For the next few days it will just be me, the cannibals, and their sex lives.
Thanks to Kacey for the great recommendation.