Since when did I become such a chick?

In my previous life as a student, I found that I was drawn to pieces of literature that many would abhor or at least condemn for not having a "happy ending." Indeed, my studies of Capote, Wright and various others thoroughly enthralled and enlightened me and, in my mind, gave me a better idea of the thoughts and ideas of people who didn't necessarily share my beliefs or my outlook on life. Yet now I find myself yearning for a happy ending... for the "Jane Austen perspective," as I affectionately call it. All of the sudden I have a craving for happy little endings that are unrealistic and thoroughly prosaic. Perhaps the scholasticism that I have been holding on to for dear life is at last being squelched by my mindless job. Or maybe it's a weird hormonal thing (ah the joys of being a woman). At any rate, lately I have been asking myself when I became such a CHICK. It's befuddling, really.

I just read Atonement, which Greg assured me would redeem my last two depressing ventures into literature. While my scholastic self would wholeheartedly agree, my new (and hopefully temporary) chick self is unsure. So despite my inner turmoil, I will give it a glowing recommendation because it is a unique tome. It's narration devices are refreshingly original and effective, and it's pretty well written. Yes, there are holes in the narrative and unanswered questions, but it's like that on purpose. I did have to skip a few pages of sexual material and overlook some swearing, but what do you expect from modern literature?

Anyway, I hope this bout of chickness passes soon... because it's not me, and I don't like it.