If You’re in College and You Still Read Young Adult Novels, You Should Probably Kill Yourself

Hey, guess what? Young adult novels are fucking garbage.

No, there aren’t any exceptions. If you have to say “for a young adult novel” after any assentation of merit, then you’ve already undermined any appeal to quality you’ve tried to posit. There are no good young adult novels. There aren’t supposed to be. There never was. The entire genre has been a cash-in on rising literacy rates and the bestowment of what had once been a prestigious mark of a learned man upon people whose intelligence and attention spans are still more or less tied directly to their junk and with no particular filter in between. Like Japanese otaku, except more hypocritical and slightly more delusional.

Reading John Green is a lifestyle choice. Reading Faulkner is also a lifestyle choice. One of these lifestyle choices is, in fact, better than another one, just as investment of your time and money into video games instead of vocational school or online classes are also lifestyle choices with marked differences in both the quality of your life thereon as well as the quality of your spirit. Basically if you only read John Green then you’re going to be retarded for probably the rest of your life.  You could stop reading John Green, but the damage is already done. The truth is, a better lifestyle choice than reading John Green is suicide. Why? Because then you’ve at least ended your life with some semblance of dignity, and you’ve done the rest of mankind a service in that we don’t have to put up with your utterly retarded and juvenile blatherings for the rest of your life. And that’s assuming you aren’t also some kind of socially decrepit child who unknowingly found yourself in a grown-up’s body with access to all the different things grown-ups are allowed to do and be responsible for. You’ll be able to vote, buy more shitty books, and basically pollute whatever is left of the cultural pool of civilized society and, somehow, make it even worse.

Shit man, the more I think about it, the more pathetic readers like you come across. When Islam gets here, you’ll all be put to the sword. When the Marxists take power, you’ll be shot for being bourgeois scumbags. When Trump takes charge, you’ll be sent to education camps and equipped with whatever socially-beneficial skills appropriate for your degenerate pagan minds and made to be useful in this godforsaken city of Man. In the wake of the literati genocide, I feel nothing but contempt for the democratization of what’s supposed to count as “culture” or “art”.  Art sucks anyway.  #whitegenocide

“B-but I also read like, I just read uh, The Count of Monte Cristo last week. And I loooooove James Joyce!”

Don’t fucking lie to me you little shit. You only cracked the cover to War and Peace for the cred. You can’t pronounce half the names in Monte Cristo and I don’t think you could even tell me how Ulysses kicks off.

Just kidding. I know you didn’t even read the first page of those tomes. Tolstoy? More like uh… something clever that rhymes with –stoy, amirite? Stoya? God damn, you are retarded. Just tie the noose already.

Okay. Real talk: you want John Green? That’s fine. The suicide booths aren’t widespread yet, but when they are, we’ll be sure to point them out to you at every available opportunity. There’s nothing more upsetting than young adults watching John Green videos on the internet. Not even executions. Not even dead babies.

Are you 20 years old? Are you still reading Harry Potter? Did you think The Great Gatsby was kind of overrated when you were forced to read it in high school? Do you think literature exists purely for sensationalistic short-term impulsive entertainment? That literary talent rests solely on a writer’s ability to make you feel good? That it’s all relative and man, we oughta just respect everyone’s taste in books equally and that any attempt to scrutinize anything is either “being a hater” or “overanalyzing everything”?

Listen, I don’t care if you actually do read real books on occasion. I don’t care if, in fact, “on occasion” is the only time in which you indulge in young adult novels. I don’t care if you treat it like a dirty secret or a guilty pleasure or if it’s basically your own private pornography. It’s disgraceful and embarrassing, and you’re only causing yourself injury with each flippant turn of the page. If you feel guilty reading this crap then you should probably stop. If you don’t feel guilty, then you should probably find the nearest set of train tracks, lie down on them, and wait for the 3:10 to pass over your head.

Okay. Let’s say you do actually read books. I’m stretching your imagination here, but bear with me.

Let’s pretend that your vocabulary is larger than that of the average eight-grader’s and that your ability to string together phrases and sounds exceeds that of your typical seven year old, and that, somehow, you can make it to the end of moderately complex sentences while remembering how they started and what ideas they were written about. If you’re reading young adult fiction with skills like these, then you’re either lying or you’re some kind of literary cuck, more interested in garbage under the pretenses or false assumptions of ‘all things being equal’ than quality. Or you’re a pick-up artist and potential rapist. In any case, it’s clear that you really have no interest in discerning quality from whatever book happens to spring to the top of your Amazon Recommended For You lists or its best sellers.

You want the smuggest, most pretentious, gratingly self-indulgent sappy bullshit to have ever been marketed to wide audiences? You’d love this blog. But you’d probably like John Green’s books more. His clichés and overly post-romantic pseudobabble appeal only because you’re too fucking stupid to be able to follow prose that might make you reflect on yourself, your position in life, and your attitudes toward the content of the story. You’d rather just be pandered to with “good characters” (whatever that’s supposed to mean to your ape-like sense of attachment) and “interesting stories” (like what spell Harry will use to disarm someone next!). It’s why you watch television and agreeably nod your head when you read New York Times columnists proclaim how television serials are the modern inheritor to the novels of old. But for chrissake man, they’re from the New York Times! They’re all Marxists! And gay!

The truth is, I have to keep cursing at you to keep your attention, and I’m frequently insulting you because I know that the danger of being taken seriously increases when I don’t.

By the way, Scarlett Johansson is really, really attractive.

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