I’m generally a happy person. Really, I am. I like to think that I can roll with the punches, too.
But do you know what gets me really upset?
I shed tiny tears of sorrow for people who enjoy reading bad literature because they haven’t ever bothered to read good literature. I’m looking at you, Twilight fans. Stephanie Meyer is NOT the next Jane Austen. Not, NOT, NOT!
I am also deeply troubled by people who think that movies are superior to books, and therefore don’t ever bother to read actual books. Here’s a hint, peeps: The movie will NEVER be as good as the book.
Why Jennifer, you may be asking, what has brought on this sudden case of book rage?
I just learned of the existence of something so horrible, so incredibly unbelievable, so outrageous, that being trapped naked in an elevator filled with giant furless spiders and Tom Cruise just might get bumped down to #2 on my list of nightmares.
It’s a book about a movie about a book.
And not just any book.
The greatest, most important book ever written.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great sadness and fear for the future of mankind that I present…