Don't Judge a Book by its Semi-Erotic Cover

That whole “never judge a book by its cover” advice? Total crap. Unless you mean it figuratively speaking (most people do).

You can usually tell everything you need to know about a book by its cover. Does it have a dog on the cover? The dog dies on page 287. Does it have a renaissance painting on the cover? Count on some steamy scenes, an affair, a murder, and a lot of unnecessary exposition. If there’s an illustration on the cover, it’s an actual children’s book. A sepia photo of a girl on the cover? Don’t waste your time. Trust me.  

I use Goodreads to find books to put on my to-read list. It’s an easy way to keep track of what you’ve read, review books, and find new books that might interest you. AND—you can see the covers of books before you find them on the shelf.

I recently started reading a novel called What I Loved, which I found on Goodreads. I put it on hold at my library. This is the cover I expected:

Makes you think the book has something to do with art, right? Possibly a sad story, a tale of something lost?

This is the cover I got.

You can only imagine my face as the librarian handed it over to me.

Me: This isn’t what it looks like.

Librarian: No need to explain . . .

Me: No, really. It’s not a romance novel—I’m not into that stuff.

Librarian: It’s none of my business what you’re into.

Me: Wait, wait! Goodreads says: “New York 1975—art historian Leo Hertzberg discovers an extraordinary painting by an unknown artist in a SoHo gallery . . .”

Librarian: Fascinating set-up. If you’ll excuse me.

And then I leave, completely humiliated. WHY do people choose such horrible artwork for book covers? Don’t they know that visuals sell? You see the cover of a book before you read the back of it.

Meh. I guess it could’ve been worse. At least this wasn’t the cover:

Did you ever have a book cover take you by surprise? What’s the ugliest book cover you can remember seeing?

One Year Closer to Death

Tomorrow is my 23^rd birthday. So instead of moping around my apartment, eating a Midnight Milky Way and checking my roots for traces of silver, I thought I’d reflect on all the things I’ve done in my 22^nd year of life. Nothing jogs the memory like social media, right? So I’m going to have a look back at my last year of social networking and judge how great year 22 was by how many retweets I got (But not really. That’s pathetic.).

Facebook tells me:

• I had an awesome internship that threw me a sweet 22^nd birthday party with their whiteboard covered in “22 Things We Know About Beta.”
• I nearly killed myself working on the NSAC Nissan account, and loved it.  
• I got pissed at the Commons for repeatedly putting meat in my vegetarian stir-fry.
• My roommate and I had our drinks paid for by the only French men in Springfield.
• I saw my little sister graduate from high school, and I graduated from college.
• I got a job with an incredible company, doing something I love.

Twitter tells me:

• I was stoked about a $30 paycheck on my 22^nd birthday.
• I chatted with an old man on the phone, even though he had the wrong number.
• I learned way more about Millennials and Nissans than I ever wanted to know.
• I threw a fit (and rightly so) when Bradley Cooper was named “sexiest man alive.”
• I became obsessed with American Horror Story.
• I started a short-lived vlog. It was weird. 
• I saw Incubus live for the second time. Which means I also saw Brandon Boyd half-naked for the second time.

Goodreads tells me:

• I read (and loved) Le Petit Prince.
• I finally gave into (and loved) The Hunger Games.
• I read (and loved) lots of awesome books.
• Surprise, surprise. I really like reading.

Pinterest tells me:

• My sense of humor is usually cat-related.
• I (laughably) think I’m going to be able to afford a loft in New York someday.
• I have a passion for what I do.
• If I could, I would only wear black, white, and stripes.
• I should probably be obese.

That sums it up. 22 was the best. I’m gonna go eat a Milky Way now.