Last night, I had my composition class. I'm supposed to write a definition essay about something that is difficult to define and therefore subjective, like love or support, or in my case, finding entertainment from something that is not entertaining. For reference, and to give her a bit of background on loving to hate something, I gave my professor a few examples of websites that capitalize on this idea, like cake wrecks and go fug yourself, and of course, Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. She sort of tried to talk me out of writing the paper, but then conceded and recommended that I check out the psychology section of the Library and look up morbidity. She then suggested that if I really like trashy romance novels, I should try reading Jane Austen.
In her words: You should try Jane Austen. Her books are older, but they're good, and they're in the romance genre.
I must have been looking at her like she had lobsters crawling out of her ears. Jane Austen? Is she kidding me? Am I a single woman over the age of thirty? Of COURSE I've heard of Jane Austen. I've practically memorized Pride and Prejudice, and my favorite book pretty much ever is Emma. One of my friends pointed out that we're still in the "get to know you" phase, and I realize that and will cut her some slack, but oh my heavens, since when is Jane Austen a bodice-ripper?
Now I want to read Persuasion again. Dang.
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