A Year in Reading: M.C. Mah
Standing athwart the evident passage of a year, shuddering, “No.” Never have I claimed to be well-read; I exhibit reading behavior. Taking honest account of it feels akin to my book of the year 2017, Alissa Nutting’s “Grub Street Diet,” wherein she wrote, “I like texture more than flavor.”
Because I tend to read what’s in the vending machine. At the end of this Year in Reading installment I will award the 2018 Achievement in Vended Prose from among these ruffles, puddings, and cool, ranch-flavored corn crunches: and ; KellyMom and Lucie’s List; the indistinct voice of and coauthor; half a dozen servings of sportswriting for my health; “TFW” has been assigned a review; “Russian meddling”; Rotten Tomatoes audience reviews for “research”; Babycenter’s “My Baby This Week” emails, a little on the nose; ’s “Sunday Routine” or, “Roast a chicken to graze on for the rest of the week—what’s wrong with you?”; and “SJW garbage”; and r/Relationships (where peevish 21Ms ask nicely that their girlfriends lose weight); tweets urging newspapers to use the word “lie” in their headlines; ’s “” as read aloud by my mom; the epic of heterosexuality that and ’s entry in “”; buzz for so I’d know just how seriously I was supposed to take it when I went to see it alone.
