Sometimes I hate when I love the things I’m supposed to. Or not that I’m supposed, but that I’m fitting a stereotype by enjoying. I’m annoyed when I read a bestseller and really love it, not because I like to think I’m an individual or I’m too hipster for mainstream books or something, but I’m an English major, so I feel like I’m supposed to read books more critically and not enjoy what the rest of readers do, for some reason. I’m not supposed be blinded by the bells and whistles of contemporary novels and that I should be appalled that the general public doesn’t typically enjoy reading William Faulkner by the pool. But I don’t love William Faulkner and I secretly really love the bells and whistles of contemporary writing just like everyone else does. But so the fact that I’m fitting the bill of a quintessential English major by listening to Feist at two in the morning and I’m pulling my hair out writing a paper about Montaigne (who I’ve fallen in love with, of course, because that’s how this is supposed to go) is so dumb and predictable. But, oh well. I’m going to indulge and complain about how tired I am when six thirty rolls around in…oh…about four hours.
You can listen to Feist too, if you’d like. She’s pretty damn fantastic, I think.