After my shower, I get dressed and head to the kitchen to eat breakfast, turning my iPod to the soundtrack of Edvard Grieg's Op. 23. Grieg, I think, is the type of artist that the mock-sophisticated listen to in an attempt to sound cultured, since he is obscure enough to be "cool," yet still recognizable. I doubt many a person with any kind of exposure to classical music is unfamiliar with the tune of "In the Hall of the Mountain King," and yet any kind of familiarity with his other works makes one seem suave and sophisticated.
As the final grasping melody of no. 17 comes to a close, I grab my cereal from a cupboard. I don't take the time to really look at what I'm eating, just so long as it isn't Froot Loops. When it comes to cuisine, I draw a definite line on anything which is intentionally mispelled or features an unnatural shade of blue; Froot Loops unfortunately falls into both categories. On the way to the table, I stop at the fridge to get the milk, loading it into my hand while simultaneously shuffling the cereal into the crook of my elbow and using my free hand to grab a bowl and spoon. Thus laden, I continue on my journey and carefully unload the contents of my arms onto the table. The cereal, I am pleased to discover, is a sports one which, in addition to being healthy, properly spelled and within an ordinary colour range, also happens to taste considerably better than the toucan embossed alternative.
While I quietly wax my hatred for the unnecessarily blue and the silent antagonistic figure who had decided to so eagerly destroy the eloquence of proper spelling, my sister enters the room. She is absorbed in yet another of her books featuring a strong, yet insecure and unknowingly beautiful heroine who is trapped in the midst of some kind of conflict against what I shall hereby dub "The System," and the corruption of society around her, with the strong subplot being a love triangle between the mysterious and gorgeous but aloof stranger and the handsome and loyal best friend who has secretly loved her from the moment he saw her. It is reasonably obvious that despite the obviously more practical qualitites of the latter, and his undying loyalty, he shall pine after our heroine from afar for the entirety of the series before finally realizing that his love for her never will be returned, and from this suddden epiphany experiencing a truly touching period of self-growth. Meanwhile, the aloof hero finally announces his love for the heroine and they proceed to make out passionately.
Truth be told, it makes me want to vomit.
A person with reasonable observational skills would note my extensive knowledge on the plot of this book and wonder whether or not I had previous experience with it. The book in question is called The Last Dance for Death and has recently been somewhat of a phenomenon among the young ladies in my high school. I had the great displeasure of hearing a complete summary of it from my ex-girlfriend, who was in love with it before it reached its current levels of popularity. After hearing a summary of it, I decided I despised it. However, after a week or so of crowing my hatred for the book into the world, I realized that, not having read it, I did not really possess the privilege of judging it. And so it was that I read the book.
After such a traumatic experience, I can say the following about the book:
1. The heroine, while initially charming, rapidly becomes very shallow and needy, thus taking away (or adding, for some people) the ability to relate to her.
2. On further reading, the only character who has any depth at all is the best friend who pines after her; the others all eventually prove to be self-centered bigots.
3. The aforementioned love triangle, which I was told to be only a sub-plot, actually occupies about 78% of the plot, which is occasionally interspersed with over dramatized action sequences or chase scenes.
4. In general, the purpose of the antagonist is to challenge the main characters, usually with some sort of dastardly plot which threatens the safety of the protagonists at the very least, or often that of a much larger group of people generally considered to be good. In The Last Dance for Death, however, the villain is largely frivolous; indeed he spends so much time attempting to turn the characters to the side of evil that he rivals The Emperor in terms of lenience towards the protagonist. Truly, had he at any of the numerous times he had the heroes at his mercy swiftly destroyed them, his eventual defeat would not have occurred and every one of his numerous setbacks at the hands of the good guys avoided entirely.
All in all, the book was a bit of a wash. Perhaps the most enjoyable part of reading it was the fact that it gave one so much to complain about. My sister, noticing my grimace at the sight of the book, flashed me a smile: all pearly whites that were so straight you would never know she wore a retainer.
I finish my breakfast, feeling only slightly less bettered by it than the person shown on the box, and set about making my lunch: a sandwich, one power bar, and an apple. I stuff these into my backpack and slip my feet into my shoes, a pair of old converse that are faded and worn. I pull a sweater over my head and, thus equipped, leave the house for school.
