I thought wrong. I couldn't pass Literary Interpretation. Maybe it was me, maybe it was my professor. I'm more likely to blame someone else because in all honesty I'm perfect. I had to settle for an English concentration with my journalism minor. So basically, I had to take 24 random English credits.
But last night I realized that it's not the professor's fault I couldn't interpret poems by Emily Dickinson. It's the fact that I can get through Chelsea Handler's "Are You There Vodka? It's me Chelsea" before I can get through Candide by Voltaire or any normal book. Here's a little excerpt from her book:
"I was too young to work legally so I only had two realistic options: I could either start my own underground babysitting ring or become a prostitute.
Although I had developed a serious crush on our plumber that year, I wasn't sure that I was ready for penetration. I had seen my very first penis on a porno tape I stole from my brother, and was completely flabbergasted. While I had heard a lot about the size and shape of the penis, no one had ever mentioned there were going to be balls attached to it."
I probably have read that chapter four times already, just because it's hysterical. But for the sake of being serious right now, the book is incredible. It's easy to read and it's hysterical. I'm not sure why my literary tastes are so terrible, but I think this is a clear indicator that I should never have been accepted into the IU English program. But it's probably clear why I didn't finish it.
If you like Chelsea Handler's book, you should probably also check out Wanda Sykes' "Yeah, I said it." And as for me, well I'm going to go read "Diary of a Wimpy Kid." It's a novel in cartoons by Jeff Kinney.
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