Once again, I wanted join in for a round of Top 5 Wednesdays. I’ve missed most of the month, but my plans for today were cancelled, so I decided to catch up.
There are a ton of book that I have not finished, for a number of different reasons, but these were the ones at the very top of my head. You’ll notice that a couple of them are literary classics, but when did that ever stop something from being boring?
I mix this up with Frankenstein a lot because I’d been assigned Frankenstein twice, but only actually read it the second time. I think I’ve only been assigned Dracula once, and had to answer questions on it, but I couldn’t tell you a thing about it if you asked me today. I even remember having a class over horror fiction that featured a whole unit on Vampires, but we slid right past Dracula.
I don’t have any interest in this story. I haven’t been a big vampire fan since Twilight almost killed the genre, but I appreciate some of the older stuff. Yet and still, Bram Stoker’s Dracula has never been something I’ve cared to finish. That Luke Evans’ Dracula Untold, though? Absolute fave.
I got this book at some point in 2005 because of HarperCollins’First Look program (PLEASE BRING THAT BACK!!), and it’s pretty obvious why I bothered to read it. My mother named me Eurydice because she thought that the name was pretty, but, the moment that I heard the myth, I promised myself that I’d stay far from boys named Orpheus.
The Orpheus Obsession was about a teenager who gets obsessed with her favorite rockstar after a chance meeting with him. I liked the book for the bit that I did read, but I think even 14-year-old me just could not gel with the rejection that I knew was coming. Not to mention, she was a teenager and he was a grown man, so nothing good was coming out of that.
I remember the main character was basically raised by hippies, and her parents never seemed to be around. I also remember thinking that the ending might have been too much for my heart at the time, but it’s been eleven years, so I should probably try again.
If you’ve been on my blog before, you’ll have seen me mention a book club that I started with some friends. I cannot, for the life of me, remember whose pick this was, but I can still remember the point at which I had to say that this book was too much for my heart.
You have to understand, I am a fangirl. I regularly empathize with fictional characters. Secondhand embarrassment is par for the course for me.
32 Candles was about a woman who had run away from her hometown after an embarrassing incident that happened when she was sixteen. She ends up making a name and a life for herself in California, but not before exacting revenge on the people whom she felt had wronged her in high school.
This book is for people who like drama for the sake of drama, because it literally gets to that point. I had to stop reading when it felt like the main character had had one reveal too many. The love interest literally asked her if there were any more lies, and she said no. And then she gets exposed for another lie a page later.
I just. Could not.
I need another year before I go back to this one.
I remember having a copy of this book. I remember intending to get into the series. I even remember starting it. However, I quickly grew bored and never went back to it.
I am quite sure that this book went missing at some point, but I’ve since lost interest in the series. Y’all can have it.
I remember having to read this book for a class during the two years I spent at the University of Houston. I cannot remember what it was about, but I remember being bored to tears and hating it.
I remember now. It was a British Literature class, and the story was about an American girl who goes to live with her rich, British cousins. She turns down two good suitors to marry this trash man (he’s actually trash, he does not collect it) that she knows she’s unhappy with, but she stays anyway.
I feel like I stopped reading the book half way though, then finagled my way to a passing grade via class discussions. I just remember coming out the experience thinking that Victorian era women needed Vicodin to make it through.
I will not be returning to this book.
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