Delightfully Taught

I have to read roughly 20 short stories a week between my two Literature classes this semester. I thought I loved literature. I still do, but I've lost a lot of respect for it.

I mean seriously, can I someday have a  happy story to read? Would it kill these people to make a comment on humanity without making me entirely depressed or grossed out? The beauty of their words is rather overshadowed when I dread finding the results. Spurts of humor and innocence don't cut it when the air hangs with observational disease.


I need me some Jane Austen or something.


I used to adore Poe. Now I have to kind of put him in the same category as everyone else...if not pushed to the back. I've been bombarded with too much disgusting to appreciate his language flirtations.


Hm...and you can always tell when I've been reading a lot when I throw in words that would cause my dear friend Scottland to carry around his dictionary. Let's go back to normal, maybe. And fix the depression.

Once upon a time there was a little girl.

She loved ponies and rainbows.

She learned how to obey Momma and Poppa

and so got everything her heart desired.

She got married in a castle 

to a man she did cartwheels with.

And they had beautiful children

whom they played with every day.

Hm. So that's why these stories are so depressing. It's not easy. My story kind of makes me want to puke, too.

I shall write a happy story that realistically teaches something.

Or just steal one from the Ensign.

...I love being LDS.