Or, the worst book club ever.
Oh! children of future generations. One day some of you will come across this in your grandmother’s house. You’ll ask her what the fuck this is about only for your septuagenarian ancestor to babble about her love for a fictional beige-clad Volvo-driving prude, reveal her oeuvre of Alternate Universe fanfiction and show you the tattoo branding her wrinkled skin. You may need to laugh/throw up. I understand. Also, put it back on the shelf. Read Anne Bronte instead.
I bow down to your exploitational skills, HarperTeen marketing department. I would have made the cover sparkle, however.
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