Why I Hate Virginia Woolf

Well here it is only the second day of what was just yesterday a brand new clean year without a blemish, spread before me like just-washed sheets on a King-sized bed, bringing to mind a hotel in the Catskills where I went as a young girl with my parents and grandparents, my grandmother a Polish immigrant and overwhelmed by its opulence, smelling fabulous and completely inviting, suggesting all manner of possible adventures to come, and now there's a big, fat black splotch on it already, almost through no fault of my own and despite my having actually done the very thing that has brought about its ruin, quite unintentionally I might add, or rather with only the best of intentions, and that was spending more than an hour, and at my age time is precious, last evening, reading Mrs. Dalloway, a novel by Virginia Woolf that somehow (wrongly I see now) I had decided was worth my time and attention; neither of which it is, or yours either, unless you have enjoyed this ridiculously meandering sentence about which nobody could care but myself, or in the case of Ms. Woolf, herself. It's little wonder she ended her life, whereas I still have mine and plan to enjoy it as much as possible, which means to Hell with reading Virginia Woolf, she of the enveloping dark headaches blotting out everything else and the voices in her head -- chiding, always chiding -- and the long face; instead I will find a cheerful author who has neither drowned him or herself nor shot him or herself or stuck his or her own head in the oven like Sylvia Plath did, and believe me her famous book The Bell Jar is no walk in the park either, and continue with my plan to read a book every month, just not any by Virginia Woolf, or in fact any suicidal author, and I find that to be a considerable relief. Instantly the day seems brighter!