Who Gives A Shit: Help Me, Help You

Because I have an eighteen-stop completely local commute from South Slope to my nine to five in the mornings, I wake up like, twenty minutes before I have to leave, drag my ass up to the F train in a half-conscious stupor (but immaculately put together, of course), and then spend the next forty-five minutes staring into space (which explains why I’ve been on page four of Crime and Punishment for the last two weeks).

Staring into space often turns into me inventorying everything that everyone is reading, thus assuming I know everything about their lives solely based on their book selection.  Yes, I assume everyone with a Kindle is reading erotica.  Especially you.

But over the last week, I’ve noticed a disproportionate number of self-help books, including shit like How To Find Your Inner Goddess, How To Make Money With Your Ass Still on the Couch, You Will Lose Weight Just By Reading This, etc. 

I want my trashy romance novel readers back…so I can read over their shoulders.  I’ve already found my inner goddess, dammit.

Anyone else notice this self-help phenomenon recently? [ed note: And follow-up: do you think any of that shit actually work?]