Break out the Muscat de Rivesaltes, guys, this is my own, personal book club. There's no set topic. Oh... wait. Maybe there is...
First up: a happy little pairing:
Lionel Shriver's "We need to talk about Kevin"
Jodi Piccoult's "19 minutes"
Both of these are about screwed up, psychologically damaged teenagers who go on a murderous rampage around their high schools. Hmm. Comedies, then.
Second; a couple more Jodi Piccoult novels:
My sister's keeper - another happy story of terminal illness in a child, designer babies, moral dilemma and death.
The pact - a cheerful tale of teenage suicide.
There's obviously a high giggle factor here, too.
Finally: a selection (free choice, people) of Michael Connelly or Jonathan Kellerman thrillers.
These involve brutal murders, criminal psychology and the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles.
So maybe there is a theme after all.
I swear, people, I've been on the muscat since I took C. back to her dad's and am slowly falling apart.
All these joyous books about death and the dark side of life have helped me come to the shocking (to me, anyway) realisation that I cannot possibly allow myself to commit suicide, however appealing it might seem, because I can't bear the thought of what it would do to C and L. Yet, at the same time, the thought of having to live like this for the rest of my miserable life fills me with such despair that I think I'll implode.
I truly don't know what to do.
Somebody. Anybody. Please.