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furyofvissarionI'm inaugurating a new tag: shitlist. Last week I attempted to read Valerie Frankel's YA novel Fringe Girl; it sounded like the type of easy-read fluff (uncool girl uses the lessons learned in social studies class to orchestrate a revolution in the school social order) that is right up my alley at the moment.
But no! I got as far as page 2 before I had to restrain myself from hurling the book across the subway car into the head of another innocent commuter. Behold:
Fuck right off, Valerie Frankel. THAT SHIT AIN'T CUTE.
But no! I got as far as page 2 before I had to restrain myself from hurling the book across the subway car into the head of another innocent commuter. Behold:
Where I was "decent," my friend Eli (short for Elizabeth) Stomp fell on the exotic end of the attractiveness spectrum, with jet-black hair, mysterious dark brown eyes, red lips. Her ghostly pallor and rail-thin body gave her a certain (granted, Chinese) vampirish air--the possible explanation for why boys seemed to reel back in fear of her rather than assuming a rightful, worshipful posture in her presence.
Fuck right off, Valerie Frankel. THAT SHIT AIN'T CUTE.