You thought I meant texting! Ha, no. While I might peruse Straight White Boys Texting on a daily basis, I am also modest to a screaming fault and the only uncouth language in my textual relationships is my own sailor-on-shore-leave cursing.
No, friends, we are here to talk about books. Like every gal who grew up in the mid-2000s, I desperately wanted to live in Stars Hollow. That’s right, the sleepy, zany little Connecticut hamlet from Gilmore Girls. Nevermind the fact that I lived in my very own sleepy, zany little New England enclave, I was desperate to be friends with Luke and Lorelai and Paul Anka the dog. But, since I learned I couldn’t insert myself into the TV around the age of two when I slammed into my grandparents’ set with a bucket on my head for protection (mama didn’t raise no fool), I decided to settle for keeping up with Rory’s reading list.
Ten years and a whole lot of chick lit later, I’m officially requesting a mulligan. A recent Buzzfeed post alerted me to the fact that of the 300+ books mentioned in the series, I’m…not doing so hot.
Basically, this was my reaction to learning I hadn’t even made it 1/3 of the way through in the past ten years:
Ten. Years. You know, the equivalent of 2.5 full Bachelor’s degrees.
So I’m recommitting. From George Orwell to Joan Didion, I am recommitting to the Rory Gilmore reading list. Having recently discussed with a friend that I feel most of my fancy book-learnin’ has leaked right out of my head, I’m hoping that focusing on a brain-based project will help me feel like less of a, well, giant dummy.
Wish me luck?