You see, I’ve been in a little bit of a situation lately when it comes to what I consider, “entertaining reading material.” As in, “entertaining reading material” apparently, to me, is “horrifically sad and disturbing reading material, which makes you rethink who you are as a person entirely.” You should know that this post will include some spoilers to books I’ve read, but you shouldn’t stop reading here, because what I’m trying to say is that you should not read any of the books I’ve subjected myself to. Essentially, you should thank me for spoiling these books so you are not tempted to do anything crazy like read them.
See, I’m what one might call a wimp. When The Sixth Sense was out in theaters, I made the crippling mistake of watching it and then could not sleep without a light on for at least six months. I don’t enjoy the occasional slasher film, nor do I understand any of the reasoning or excitement behind gory movies such as the Saw series. Netflix Instant keeps recommending I watch this movie called The Human Centipede, which includes this in its brief synopsis: “The plan includes removing their kneecaps so they must walk on all fours, then surgically connecting them to a Japanese man to create a bizarre human chain.” How do I politely say to Netflix, “NOT FUCKING INTERESTED EVER EVER EVER STOP IT”?
What I’m saying is that I don’t like things that aren’t pretty. I like my media like I like my men: hot and uplifting. And yet. These books I keep picking up? First it was The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series, which were so intense/horrifying/gripping that, by the time I was able to put them down, I couldn’t sleep for fear that anyone similar to the terrifying male characters that frequent the books might suddenly have some business to attend to in my apartment. Highly unlikely, but not improbable and now we’ve found the source of my fear. It’s like, I know it’s not likely to happen, but I can’t logically and, with certainty, ascertain that it won’t happen which, pardon my fucking French, leaves me kind of screwed.
So, after finally ridding the Stieg Larsson trilogy from my life, my friend Jenn insisted that I read The Hunger Games series, which she convinced me I would love. Tap tap, add to my Kindle. Halfway through the first book, I wondered if Jenn was trying to eliminate my ability to sleep all together or if she had the impression that I may be a disturbed person. This series is about how North America collapses, turns into twelve districts where everyone is starving and, once a year, each district has to choose two minors that will literally kill each other in order to win food and a semblance of wealth.
You guys. LITERALLY KILL EACH OTHER. KIDS UNDER 18. WITH TRIDENTS AND BOWS AND ARROWS AND KNIVES AND KILLER BEES.
Needless to say: THESE BOOKS ARE HORRIFYING. Poignant and subtly making some pretty fantastic political points, but jesus, if it fell onto a spectrum where Disney was on the right and Saw was on the left, it would be a little too close to Saw. And now, it’s taking all my willpower not to read the third, and last, book because it’s like, I want to, but I’M ALL SET. I get way too into the books and I think, “What would I do if I had to kill people in order to survive? HOW TERRIBLE WOULD THAT BE?” And my mind is just too vivid because I start imagining it then reenacting it and it all just needs to stop because, no, I don’t want to ever have to be put into a position where I need to kill someone with a trident. That just doesn’t sound like a thing I’d like to do.
Am I serious with these books? Come on, Me. Do I subconsciously have a sick obsession with death? My reading choices would really point to the clear fact that I am, in fact, kind of a disturbed human being.
I also watched The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire movies, even though they were both in Swedish and I had to deal with subtitles and with seeing all the disturbing things I had just read about, because, oh, I’M A MASOCHIST and I’d very much enjoy being paranoid that everyone is a sadistic serial killer. Yeah, that’s hilarious. Also, fun.
And, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, I’m going to see The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest and if The Hunger Games were ever turned into a movie, I’d see those, too. Of course.
In related news, I think I have a serious problem.
Anyone have the number of a good shrink? Like, one who deals with people who are sabotaging their own ability to genuinely believe that other people are not trying to kill her or steal all her organs*?
Shit, did I just describe a textbook schizophrenic? Oh. No. Guys, this is bad. SEND HAPPY BOOKS. STAT. OR HAPPY PILLS. OR METH. EITHER ONE AT THIS POINT.
*Yes, in an attempt to find something happy, I mistakenly read a book about clones who are brought up to only be organ donors. Real positive and uplifting stuff there. Kill me.