She didn’t really read. She said she does. She had a subscription to New York magazine and liked Kurt Vonnegut.
Vonnegut, I reminded her, is The Beatles of literature. Of course you like it. Everyone likes it. It’s accessible and fucking neat. But you don’t, say, go through your favorite music with friends or something and tell them you like The Beatles. It’s like admitting you like cake, or sex, or falling in love. You accomplish nothing original or spectacular or savvy when you bring up Vonnegut in a conversation about literature.
And there is nothing sadder than some teen dream getting a tattoo on her wrist that reads Goodbye Blue Monday.