Dear Chuck Palahniuk,

You know I secretly adore you, despite the fact that I always feel like I've been coated in a thin film of dirt and boogers everytime I read one of your books. I even adore you despite the fact that every once in a while that short story you wrote about the dude and the pool-drain randomly pops into my head and my asshole instinctively clenches so tight you couldn't get the thinnest of threads up there if your life depended on it, and I have to thinkthinkthink of 1501 pretty things to gouge the thought of pool-drains and intestines out of my brain. Despite that, I still really do dig your shit. I mean, I know I seriously had doubts about your last book--I almost gave up on it after two pages of your weird narrative-structure. But I DID NOT, and, despite (or maybe because of) the rabies and strange time-travel and weird car chase-scenes and typical Palahniuk booger-picking, it actually ended up being my favorite of your books.

So why must you go write a new book that I'm going to have difficulty reconciling with my feminist sensibilities?

PS. Especially since my 1970's-loving self really digs the cover. *SIGH*

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