"gosh golly-day, Cathy, I'm super-sorry for raping you just then."

One of the dumbest things about me is that sometimes I do something I know I won't like, but continue to do it, just to punish myself for being so stupid as to have had the bad idea in the first place. Not huge things; I don't stay with my abuser, or anything After-School Special like that. It's the little things; like ordering double-shot macchiatos when I don't even like coffee, and then forcing myself to drink the entire thing as a reminder not to be so fucking stupid in the future.

I've spent the last week doing one of these things.

See, it all started with that guy in Austria who locked up his daughter for 24 years and fathered seven kids by her. After picking my jaw up off the floor, I proceeded to tell anyone who'd listen about how much it reminded me of that V.C. Andrews book, Flowers in the Attic. The guys all went, "wha?" and all the girls went, "Oh my god, I know EXACTLY what you mean!"

It turns out there's sort of a secret society among girls my age; it seems like almost all of us spent our formative years reading V.C. Andrews books and have very fond memories associated with those books. And that's a truly terrible idea; not just because no 11-year old should be reading about rape and incest (and incestuous rape!), but also because the incestuous rape is poorly written.

Seriously. They are really fucking terribly written books. I sort of forgot how bad they actually are (also, I was a precocious 8 when I read Flowers in the Attic, so I wasn't exactly a literary critic just yet). But because I am stupid, and make mistakes and then persist on seeing them through to the bitter end, I recently purchased a copy of FITA and re-read it.

Oh boy. Ohhhh boy. Suffice it to say, its overly-florid prose, terrible characterization and numerous plot holes left me rolling my eyes and begging, pleading, with ol' Freaky Andrews to just get to the incest already. And when the INCEST is the high point of a book, you know you've got problems.

Another major flaw of mine is that I'm incapable of just letting things go and not worrying about their conclusions. I'm a freak; I have to read/watch the sequels to every book or movie, even when those sequels will surely suck, even when those sequels are not even written by the same author who wrote the original book. Y'all, I've read Scarlett, okay? And watched the miniseries. NUMEROUS TIMES.

So I already know that I'm going to have to follow up on this misadventure in terribly-crafted incest with the rest of the Flowers in the Attic series, which, strangely enough, I can still remember the major plot points of, nearly 20 years after reading them. (Incest, incest, incest, Bart's fine mustache, fire, fire, fire, Chris is in love with Cathy, Cathy does it with lots of boys, her kids are crazy, the end.) But I just don't feel like squandering my time and my reputation at my local Half-Price Books for absolutely no gain. And so, I present to you, A New Blog.

Don't worry; it's not taking the place of this one, or anything. There will still be plenty of my inane ramblings about cheese and revelry right here, and maybe even sometimes less-inane ramblings by my blog cohorts (that's a giant hint, guys). But I'm determined to share with the world (or, like, five people, whatevs) the true horror of V.C.Andrews, through reviews and general wtfery posts about these strange worlds she's crafted, where everyone - EVERYONE - does it with their brother eventually (sometimes their uncle - I remember the Cutlers!). Be afraid. Be VERY afraid. I certainly am.

(But while you're being very afraid, definitely drop by and say hi.)