Explaining some of my favourite books badly

Raven Cycle: A bunch of teenagers repeatedly accidentally stumble upon bizarre magic in rural Virginia.

The Hexslinger Series: A Pinkerton agent meets gay cowboy wizards and it’s all downhill from there.

Watership Down: Bunnies are waaaayyyy more complicated than you think.

Jane Eyre: Strong independent woman routinely gets fucked over by rich people, broody men, and life.

Wuthering Heights: Everyone is horrible.

Frankenstein: What part of this was a good idea?!

Dracula: Vampires are sexy.

Captive Prince: Royal gay smut.

Carry On: Canon drarry fanfiction.

Warm Bodies: Zombie Romeo and Juliet with a surprising amount of philosophy.

The Iliad: Gods play god.

Percy Jackson and the Olympians: Children kill gods.

The Odyssey: JUST LET THE MAN GO HOME DAMMIT!

Your Literary Dinner Party Experience:

Wuthering Heights: The food is as unappealing as the host’s personality. You find yourself fleeing the estate and taking refuge in the surrounding moorlands before the second course is served.

Great Expectations: The host wears a mildewed wedding dress as she cuts what looks to be a thirty-year-old piece of vanilla cake. You sit quietly and try to fake a smile.

Northanger Abbey: You think your host is the type of person who might have murdered his wife and hid her body in a dusty old dresser. As you take a bite of the pot roast it doesn’t even occur to you that he might just be a dick.

Jane Eyre: The fare is far better than the stale bread and bitter tea provided at your boarding school, but that’s little comfort when the host’s wife keeps setting the table linens on fire.

Dracula: You know that you are sipping on a fine Cabernet, but what is he drinking?

Pride and Prejudice: Over dessert, one of your guests confesses that he has fallen in love with you in spite of your family’s terrible table manners. You stab your pudding with your spoon and tell him he’s the last man you could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

My favourite thing is when people read classic romances for the first time and realise how different they are to the way popular culture represents them. Mr. Darcy isn’t some handsome, perfect hunk. He’s a socially awkward loser who writes embarrassingly long, eloquent letters to the girl he likes because he can’t speak two words to her face without colossally fucking up. Mr. Rochester is a creepy bigamous liar who keeps women in his attic. Heathcliff’s a terrifying fucking psychopath who abuses kids. JULIET WAS THIRTEEN.