I love books...good books, smutty books (especially these), books with or without pictures, but lately, I've discovered that there is a book that I hate with a Foamy-type squirrely wrath. And that would be chicklit.
Now, don't get me wrong, Jennifer Weiner's and Sandra Cisnero's are what I really love about chick lit. What I hate about it is the candy pink or flourescent (sp?) green books that scream out to you from the shelves with stories of a shopper with no money and no means to stop her own bad habit getting the guy, who just happens to have oodles of money with which to continue said bad habits; or the girl who moves to another town only to fall into the same bad habits that lead her leaving the first and finds love with some sap.
I crave the intelligent wit of women who have sort of discovered what they're looking for, who shy away from their bad habits, who can stand on their own two feet before being swept off them into the arms of the male character. In short give me some substance with my chicklit...because otherwise it may just as well be a piece of candy-coated gum that will leave a bad taste in my mouth.