Holy cow /lit/ we need to talk about this chicklit trash>absolute narcissistic solipsism, getting dressed or *thinking* is an existential crisis>men indeed EVERYONE are basically pets to be discarded instantly, their only existence being temporary utility>egotistical war with EVERYTHING constantly, every line of dialogue is an ego battle for some reason>materialism to make BEE shudder, nonstop relationship gossip, busy-bodying superficially I understand ostensibly women wrote these for other women but i mean really, they're horrifying - not because they're "horror" but because they're SO FUCKING SHALLOWWomen, apparently, do absolutely nothing other than spend every waking (and sleeping/dreaming) second considering how to be insufferable cunts to eachother and again everyone and everything. Exhausting beyond belief.
Okay lit you are retarded faggots i will personally kill you dipshits You have never read a book in your life. I will never tell you anything EVER again you are done.
this was a story 20+ years ago
>>25330915If you have nothing to say which of course you don't the years mean nothing
>>25329881The Devil wears Prada book is better than the movie. The old bitch gets a back story and the brunette from the movie is blonde I think and a better character. Both aged horribly.Trading up is just trash. I'm fairly confident roughly 80% of females would agree. The remaining 20% who liked it are trash.
Jilly Cooper does it best because of the humor>Because he had to get up unusually early on Saturday, Jake Lovell kept waking up throughout the night, racked by terrifying dreams about being late. In the first dream he couldn’t find his breeches when the collecting ring steward called his number; in the second he couldn’t catch any of the riding school ponies to take them to the show; in the third Africa slipped her head collar and escaped; and in the fourth, the most terrifying of all, he was back in the children’s home screaming and clawing at locked iron gates, while Rupert Campbell-Black rode Africa off down the High Street, until turning with that hateful, sneering smile, he’d shouted: “You’ll never get out of that place now, Gyppo; it’s where you belong.”>Jake woke sobbing, heart bursting, drenched in sweat, paralyzed with fear. It was half a minute before he could reach out and switch on the bedside lamp. He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.
