Blog New.0

For anyone who's been actively following posts for the last month or two (I know you're out there... show yourself!), I need hardly mention that (a) I haven't been posting much, and (b) the blog has been in a rather awkward, almost pubescent phase.  Well, no longer!  I give you the new and improved, extra-super-toasty Blog 2.0-- The Insomniac Book Club!

As the title implies, I'll still be focusing largely on literature, and my unbiased [aHEM hack cough splutter] opinions on the matter.  However, all books and no play make the Impster a cranky, muttering, ankle-gnawing hermit, so I'll also be writing about whatever I damn well please (like dinosaurs in rocketships).  What's really important, though, is that now the blog comes with pretty pictures!

...Well, pictures, anyway.

To kick things off, I'll introduce myself a bit better, so you can all rest assured that you're in good [Cough] hands.  This is me.

This is a more accurate representation of me.

I'm a recent college graduate who still can't decide what I want to be when I grow up (IF I grow up, which seems increasingly unlikely).  My shelves are full of classic literature, comics, vinyl toys, and ridiculous hats.  I like good books and bad movies.  Like all right-thinking people, I love bacon.  I'm allergic to gluten, but I love cupcakes, pies, and cinnamon buns.

As you might have noticed, I also love toast, but I have a complex relationship with my toaster.  My toaster is possessed, you see.  It behaves itself well enough most of the time so I'll let my guard down, but I'm on to it.

On a not-entirely-unrelated note, I spend a great deal of time yelling at inanimate objects.  This is because I know that all of my household appliances are conspiring to make my life difficult.  It may sound paranoid, but look at the evidence in your own life.  It's a perfectly reasonable conclusion.

I also love plants.  I have two, with more on the way.  Generally speaking, I find houseplants to be more trustworthy than appliances, but the patch of sunlight they're currently sitting in is right next to a mini-fridge, and mini-fridges are notoriously charismatic.  I'm keeping tabs on the situation as best as I can.

I may or may not also give plants silly names like 'Jefferson Aeroplant'.

Enough about me, though.  There will be plenty of time to trod out my little quirks and Batman-themed clothing in later anecdotes, where they'll probably be absolutely necessary to explain myself.

If you're new to the blog and feel like browsing some archives, feel free, but be warned that you're entering a pictureless world of great sadness.  The only books dealt with up 'til now are the first two Twilight books--which, incidentally, I highly recommend NOT reading.  If a painstaking, chapter-by-chapter descent into madness is your thing, then archive on.  Otherwise, I recommend 'Lessons From the Shmeyerverse' for a brief, mocking foray into Twilight's content, or any of the Toast Patrol segments for a laugh.

Since illustrating posts (in lieu of getting tipsy and pulling them out of my bum) takes time, and I have to go to my job so I can live in an apartment and put bacon in my tummy, posts will be somewhat less frequent... but totally more PICTURE-RIFIC.  I think getting to use awesome suffixes is worth it.

In the meantime, read safely (I'm looking at you, aspiring speed-readers!), and make good literary decisions.  Don't make my mistakes.

Mmmmm... posty.

Happy Thanksgiving, toasties! The time has come to fill up on tasty foods, instead of terrible literature. In this sweet, sweet intermission between bouts of awfulness, I have a few announcements.

First off, I'm now a shiny new art school graduate. I somehow managed to scrape a BFA out of my rather convoluted and erratic college experience, and I'm prepared to bonk heads with it! That means you, Shmeyer-- God forbid you try any funny business with illustrations, because I have an official piece o' fancy paper that says I know things about that!

On a not entirely unrelated note--and you'll find out more about that later--I'm going to be changing the blog around a bit after this horrid long haul through New Moon is over. I'm completely blurding weary of trying to write anything clever after having my poor, shriveled psyche sucked dry by bad, butchered-mythical-creature romance novels. Not to worry though, an-Twi friends (heh, see what I did there)--I'll still be reading and subsequently mocking bad bookage. However, the literary scope is going to be widening a bit to accommodate a variety of debatably overrated literature, such as those classics we keep being told are oh-so-esoteric, and therefore great. It also won't be just commentary anymore... but that's a surprise.

Anyway, more to come on all that toward the end of New Moon. Assuming the damned book ends--there is a physical end, but we don't seem to be getting any closer to it--I'll be posting soon on all the impending changes, along with the possibility of a site move and a re-naming contest.

In the meantime, toast long and prosper!

... oh, and go eat some pie.

Buttered Post

Well toasties, I've taken a short respite from reading a certain accursed book. Instead, I've been thinking (they simply can't be done at the same time, you see).

While writing a blog on someone else's awful writing, I've been having a bit of trouble balancing technically proper writing with smooth, conversational writing-- let's face it, they're often not the same thing. A casual style makes for better blog-reading, but how could I, in good faith, mock Shmeyer's terrible writing if I myself took liberties with the English language? For that matter, even though Shmeyer's writing is an affront to the senses, who am I to judge whether it's acceptable literature based on its improper use of... well, anything literary?

Here's why: I'm not telling you I write well. Sure, I read a whole walloping lot and I have a very firm grasp of correct grammar and spelling, but guess what? I'm not an English professor. I'm not even a Creative Writing minor. I went to art school for two and a half years, and spent most of them at least a bit sauced.

Although Shmeyer's writing is indefensible rubbish, I think I might be able to forgive her her folly--perhaps even pity her-- if she'd just stop bonking me over the head with her English Literature degree.

Maybe one day I'll be rich and mildly insane enough that I'll decide to go back to school for something classy, then I'll spend my time bonking young people over the head with my degree, too. For the moment, though, I'm still trying to remember what a 'past participle' is, and whether it goes well with cheap tequila.

In the meantime, I'm going to keep writing about Shmeyer's wasted efforts as an author, and I'm going to write as poorly as I damn well please.