Author: Helen Fielding
“Bridget Jones’ Diary is the devastatingly self-aware, laugh-out-loud daily chronicle of Bridget’s permanent, doomed quest for self-improvement — a year in which she resolves to: reduce the circumference of each thigh by 1.5 inches, visit the gym three times a week not just to buy a sandwich, form a functional relationship with a responsible adult, and learn to program the VCR.”
This book should have been called “The Intense Shame Spiral of Lonely Alcoholic”. This book wasn’t funny. It was so far from funny that it crossed the bridge over to purely pathetic. Somehow, every character in the book was a different style of sad. I assumed it was the author trying to write realistic characters because nobody’s perfect and all that. Yeah, real people aren’t perfect but they’re not the level fucked up that Helen Fielding described without having a few prescriptions in the bathroom cabinet.
Bridget was the worst type of character to step into. Her diary was filled to the brim with drunken ramblings, obsessively disordered eating practices, and prime examples of how to be an embarrassing pushover.
Her drinking was out of control! I didn’t really like how I was supposed to be amused by a woman being either drunk or hungover 24/7. At what point does behavior like that stop being cute and bumbling and start being a problem? I know I sound stuck up but Jesus Christ, Bridget was almost never not drunk the entire year.
She was way too obsessed with losing weight for it to be funny. It made me twist my face up every time her emotions were out of whack for a pound or an ounce of weight. It was a mess. She was a mess.
Reading about Bridget interacting with friends and family was both sad and infuriating. Sad because her family treated her like crap. Her mother constantly stomped boundaries and treated her like crap. Her friends and workmates were crappy and each interaction was just one long bitch fest about being single and sad. Bridget was a whipping girl who did nothing but held her tongue and boohooed into her diary.
Why did everyone in this book take being married so seriously? Scratch that, why did everyone in this book care so much about who Bridget’s vagina was doing? Why did they each place so much importance on men and relationships, talk shit about men and relationships and then consistently go back to the men and relationships they talked shit about? The absence of sense a consistent them in this book.
Daniel and Mark. Daniel was a fuckboy. Mark was barely there? Every conundrum she had with them she brought on herself. Why she continued to bother with Daniel was a mystery and Mark was so boring and invisible that I had no idea why she was upset over him.
I hated this book. I really, really did. I’m glad that I slogged through in a day and didn’t waste very much time. Don’t bother with this book. Sticking your hand into a lit flame would be more pleasurable.