Man, On Chesil Beach is really pissing me off. It was too rainy again to do classes (yeah, I use that all the time) so I thought I'd read instead, one plate of apple-cinnamon pancakes and three hours later I can safely say this is the last McEwan I'm reading. Amsterdam was ok and Atonement good for most of the first half, but this one's proof enough, I can't read poignant meaningful books anymore. I appreciate the writing, I appreciate the gravity of a generation without contraceptives, blah blah, I just don't like the book. Maybe I'm dumbing down, maybe I like wars better, maybe, hello, maybe it's just that love wasn't meant for me (cue heartrending sob) but whatever, perhaps when I'm fifty I'll see it otherwise. I should have read this at fifteen. Seriously, a couple who can't have sex, what a tragedy.

Next, I read American Psycho.