Ah, the sophistication of modern chick-lit wit. Sassy, over the top hyperbole and proud of it. The people who are hooked by this stuff, I avoid, as naturally as getting indigestion.
That pretty much sums the whole thing right there.
Really! Meaning, there's no need to read on?
Well...there's one more thing: I killed the devil. And the Antichrist is my half sister.
Darn it, I was hoping I'd finished. One thing these sentences have going for them is their blunt, direct and challenging nature, but the flippant tone drowns out anything meaningful.
Take these lines for example:
Who makes their own butter?
When did we all decide we were living in Little House on the Prairie reruns?
I used to be heavily dependent on Hallmark.
"Sorry I killed your mom, who was also Satan. Also, Happy Thanksgiving."
There are more, every second sentence is woolly. The wit is overflowing off the page, spilling into my brain and short-circuiting the little grey cells.
First thing said:
"You weren't answering my calls or replying to...to my...my...texts."
Yet, I'm fascinated by the state of conscious this style of writing requires from its readers.
Verdict: Pass (barely)
Sincerely,
Rudy Globird
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