Immaturity.

In the spirit of free love, intellectualism, and fabled indie credibility, I took out Vladimir Nabokov's infamous novel, Lolita. Excited, I cracked the cover and perused the first page only to find myself having to force my way through ninety-nine more before I could in good faith let myself quit.
What can I say? I tried, right?

Call me immature, call me uncultured, tell me I am without any semblance of mental finesse, but I honestly could not take any more than a hundred pages of the delicate, elderly Humbert mewing for sexual favors from his thirteen-year-old protege. Bleh. Yes, it is as gross as it sounds--in fact, probably worse. And sure, the writing itself is fine, and whatever, I guess the novel is revolutionary in its way, blah blah blah one of the hundred best novels of the twentieth century, but to be completely honest I really cannot read it anymore (though I did manage to work it into an Evolutionary Psychology essay before I stopped).

Conclusion: I will voluntarily opt out of any possible indie cred available here BECAUSE I AM JUST GROSSED OUT, OKAY?

P.S.  Do not innocently Google "Lolita" for a blog picture, thinking that all that will come up is pictures of the book. Ew.