It's 1AM, and I'm about three pages into my first essay for Hollins. It's not due until Friday, so, no, I am not procrastinating.
Today I read my third "flying off to Mars" book for sci-fi. The only problem with this one was that it had really pathetic romance scenes in it that overwhelmed the science portions of the book. Yes, I am one of those people. The kind of people who lift up their noses to books with high-heeled shoes on them or people discussing what brand of purse THEY MUST HAVE within its pages. I hate "chic lit." as they call it. I hate romance novels. I feel that both are fluff and should be treated as such. So whenever a romance writer gets all high and mighty about how his/her work should be respected and treated with the same reverence as Joyce Carol Oates or Tom Wolfe, I want to remind them that their books feature "aching bosoms" and "shoe fetishes" and thus are not works that I would ever consider taking seriously for a split second. Sorry. It's not that we shouldn't have such books because obviously there is an audience for them, but they shouldn't be expecting to be featured in the New York Times, that's all I'm saying.