
My introduction to the works of VC Andrews came in the form of my babysitter Carrie Martin, a mysterious young woman who seemed to be both angelically good and slightly evil all at the same time.
This seemingly contradictory concoction made for an epic girl crush to say the least. In fact, in a true
Single White Female way, I began to tailor myself to be a mini-Carrie out of a desperate need to emulate this goddess of cool, the kind of cool that could manipulate grown-ups with her sweet and innocent face while secretly planning to lock away her charges so that she could watch soft-core porn on basic cable at an ungodly early hour.
Of course, it was out of this platonic love fest that led me straight into the literary arms of VC Andrews and her incredibly fucked up mind, which, to this day, I believe screwed up all my romantic entanglements.
You see, Ms. Andrews wrote books about family love and not in a good wholesome way. What we’re talking about is when a brother and a sister (or, in some cases, an uncle and a niece) look at each other and think, “You know, I’m gonna bang the hell out of you” without any sort of revulsion at all.
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