Guilty books.

Whether it's your facebook profile or polite conversation, the question comes up: "What's your favorite book?" I believe I have fantastic taste in books and have a quick-list of replies always at the ready; the classics (To the Lighthouse, To Kill a Mockingbird), the modern (Lolita, Song of Solomon), and the immortal (Lonesome Dove) are all wonderful indications of one's repertoire of reading. But there is a lie of omission slinking knowingly in the shadows of these literary giants; unoffended and understanding, it lurks as you glibly gloss over its very existence. Every avid reader has one.

It's your guilty pleasure book: trashy, silly, terribly written, or terribly nerdy. But reading it makes hours seem like minutes and leaves you as satisfied as a double-fudge brownie ala mode minus the stomachache.

So why the shame? Why not proudly proclaim just how sugary sweet and satisfying your beloved book actually is? I imagine it's hard to defend something that you know is completely void of substance and originality, so we simply deny its existence in order to savor its value. You know that person who raves about how "amazing" the Twilight books are? Yeah, no one wants to be that guy. I vomited in my mouth a little after the first 15 pages, and if you are the one raving about it, I immediately judge you to have zero taste in books. Sorry, that's just my little slice of judgementalism (I think that should be a real word); to avoid it, don't tell me that you "looooove" Twilight. Meanwhile, I'll keep my guilty book close to my heart and turn to it on that rare rainy Sunday afternoon when I'm alone and unoccupied; and on Monday, I'll be cheerier than you've ever seen me.