Fuck the age old saying. I do believe that somewhere, we all judge books by their covers. Reading one right now called Miss New York Has Everything that looks brainless as hell with clouds and suitcases and an airhostess on the cover. I'd settled down for a nice quick brainless read. Its nice and quick, but really not brainless. Sweet. That's the word for it. Its a sweet book. (PS: I don't mean that in a Dooood that's sweeeet way.)

Anyway. I must quote from it in my book-Nazi propaganda way.
So here it is.

The great writer Raymond Carver once said he was a cigarette with a writer attached. Brendan Behan, the Irish playwright and poet called himself a drunk with a writing problem.
Me, I was a pair of wings with a notebook I never talked about.

Chick lit. I'd thought this would be trivial.
Its not.

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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