Yes, I read trash, but who doesn't have a vice?

I have really been struggling the last few weeks to have any motivation to do, well, anything. This laziness has led to me reread a lot of books in my Nook library. I wish that I could say that I have been reading Fitzgerald and Hemingway, but sadly I have not been able to stomach anything that resembles actual literature. Besides how could I possibly read a story about a pregnant lady that dies shortly after a stillbirth or a novel about a bunch of spoiled rich people who can't get their shit together?  Rather this is a more accurate sampling of what I have been reading (save the snickering Ryan Laird):

Book snobbery aside, I realize that this list is awful. I accept that none of the last ten books that I have read offer any kind literary presence. I understand that most of these are written for preteen girls. I recognize that the plots are simple and predictable. I admit that I am little embarrassed by this list. However, I also know that all of these books are entertaining, and mind numbing, and that is exactly what I wanted them to be. I am really sad right now, and if I can escape into a world of youthful innocence, I am going to do it.

Despite what the above listing may imply, I am actually pretty well read, and I can usually have an intelligent conversation about literature. Over the holidays, I found myself in a great discussion with two of my friends who are also really well read. One of which is a total book snob. He loves to make fun of my choice to read Twilight over Augie March or that I actually hate Steinbeck.  Which is fine because the joke is actually on him.  He reads because he wants to learn, which whatever I learned enough college. I read because I want to escape, whether it be into the world of 1920s with Fitzgerald or into a post-apocalyptic North America with Collins, and I refuse to apologize for it.