Throw Trashy Literature to the Curb

I was ill in bed all day. No, don't bother to ask what is wrong. Anyway, I tried doing all kinds of things to make me feel better. I drank lots of water with diluted Grapefruit Seed Extract. I ate my favorite comfort foods, like chicken bouillon and fried green tomatoes. I had sex twice.

None of it really worked, though. I was left reading one of my favorite trash novels. I am really, really afraid and reluctant to admit to this behavior.

Some girls read romance novels. Some read V.C. Andrews, kind of a throwback to a disturbed suburban youth. I read Maeve Binchy.

You know who she is. She wrote "Circle of Friends", that book that resulted in that horrible movie with Chris O'Donnell and Minnie Driver.
I really got into her other crappy pseudo romantic trauma dramas, though.

So by 5 PM I was nearing the end of the novel I was reading, "Echoes", and I remembered how it ended. The oh-so-happy couple in love end up in this horrible tragic end beginning when he cheats on her with some rich floozy on the golf course. Ick. Imagine this in an Irish setting and you'll be set.

I chucked the novel at the wall and left a big nick (more repairs for later. Shit.). Z looked up and away from World of Warcrack and gave me a look of semi-interest.

I explained that I had just remembered how the stupid book ended, and how badly it pissed me off. I then gathered a grocery bag full of other novels I have kept that piss me off also. I think I am ready to dispense with the bullshit. If I can't stand something - anything - about something I own, it's out the fuc&ing door. I don't have time for mediocrity. Stupid Maeve Binchy. The rest of the freaking book was great, and she had to screw it up just so it wouldn't be so fairytale like.

Well Dammit, I'm living in a freaking fairytale, and I expect that. It's okay to write about despair and darkness, for Buddha's sake. I mean, Jesus, I threw Ann Rule's Green River Killer book next to my pillow to start re-reading later.

My issue is that something small can taint everything. And life is too damn short for me not to have it exactly the way I want. I better like the nuances and personality quirks, by God. Because if I don't, they fall into the LOSER pile.

Here are a few other books I threw out for fun:

1. "Night Whispers" by Judith McNaught.

I stole this book from my mother's heap, and I liked it because the cover had a nice, dark aquamarine look at a gloomy sea floor. Reminded me of my origins or something. Turned out to be the biggest piece of trashy romantic/mystery gook I've read in a long time. Ick. Gives me the feeling I've just slathered myself in Mary Kay cosmetics after my visit to the tanning bed right after I went and had a fill on my hot pink two inch long acrylic nails.

2. "Horrors! 365 Scary Stories" Selected by a bunch of Jewish and Russian men for Barnes & Noble Books.

This anthology actually isn't that bad. The stuff inside is pretty creative. It's one of those $10 books you grab from the cheepie rack at Barnes & Noble.

My problem is this: It was given to me by an ex-lover as a birthday present, along with a few other assorted items. One was a Black Flag style bomber jacket - I lost it and I loved it...I felt like Henry Rollins' girlfriend.
Anyway, the night the ex-lover gave it to me, he was trying to reconcile things. I had brought my best friend, asexual elfin boy, to help protect me from doing anything stupid. Unfortunately, that didn't really work because my ex-lover raped me upstairs during our gift giving session.
No harm, no foul. I blame drugs. That sordid episode still isn't the issue. I just think I don't need to hang on to things that remind me of past events. Out the window, people.

3. "Catch Me If You Can" - by Frank Abagnale.

I saw this movie and really liked it. I admit, if he didn't resemble a plucked chicken, Dicraprio would be hot. He has a seriousness that is kind of cute. But the book sucks. Abagnale is big on puffery and "I'm-hot-shit-because-I-did-this". Not in-depth enough on what kind of creep feels the need to constantly pretend to be someone else.

4. "Butterfly" - by Kathryn Harvey.

Don't get me wrong. The premise of this book rocks. It's about a women's club - Butterfly - that basically offers women the opportunity to have their own fantasy based harem. Problem is, the madam/owner ends up using it as some vengeful plot to destroy some dude who screwed her up. It's just a bit too dark for me. As I try not to let anyone effect me that way, I don't like to hear that other people can't shed the rubbish that surrounds their soul.

5. "While I Was Gone" - Sue Miller.

This one also had the makings of a good book. Same prose style as Anna Quindlen (think "One True Thing"). However, her lead character pissed me off by ruining a full 1/2 of the book when she almost cheated on her good husband. No sympathy. As I've said before, "If you want it that bad you'll leave".

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So I'm left with an orderly bookshelf and a lot of questions. Who for god's sakes pays these people to write? Why the fuc& aren't they calling me? I know at least enough to not screw up the goddamned ending. What the hell.

Second, do I really feel morally competent taking my trashpile to the Salvation Army like usual? Am I not inflicting some fellow Salvation Army consumer with poor prose? Z said I should burn them. If this was any other reasonable place in the U.S., I would have to worry about the trash pickers reading them, but they practically charge you with a felony for that in the South (trash picking, that is).

Any ideas on how to properly dispose of these with my karma intact?




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