/lit/ - Literature

On an mundane afternoon /fit/ arrives home from the gym, fresh from his post-workout shower, endorphins surging through his vacuous brain from his tough GOMAD routine as he stands in front of the hallway mirror admiring his reflection for several minutes. Over the last six months he's made steady progress at lifting progressively heavier objects, and the results are visible. He's very proud of this indeed. After reluctantly pulling himself away from the mirror, he swaggers to his computer desk, on which there is a small stack of miscellaneous books, ranging from pop-history to pop-philosophy. These he glances at contemptuously for a few moments; he had tried reading them, and had actually succeeded in finishing some to completion, but no matter what he always found them difficult and boring. But just like he did with exercise, he forced himself to read them for the sake of a vague concept which occupied a large part of his thought which he termed 'self improvement', treating them only as self-help guides. They would make him appear 'more interesting' and intelligent he thought. He, who could scarce get down a morsel, bought, and set himself to swallow, whole treatises; and so he threw them up again, unable to digest them; and then came colics, fluxes, and fevers in the form of purile and poorly-written nonsense, which every time he posted on the chinese cartoon discussion board he frequented, caused the other posters merely laughed at him, or worse, to ignore him. He, who had achieved so much! Books he concluded, were not all that important anyway, and anyone who claimed to enjoy and understand them did so only because they were psuedo-intellectuals. These thoughts straining his vain and under-developed mind, he wakes his computer from hibernation with a frown, snorting inwardly and thinking "I'll show them!" as he opens the /lit/ catalog...