How was your week? Anything good coming up / bad behind you?

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It’s easy to make a superficial comparison here to reality singing competitions like American Idol or The Voice, but it’s actually substantially different. For one, Eurovision is a one-off battle—it doesn’t construct a weekly narrative of any kind—and the songs are all originals. In practice, Eurovision is bigger, glitzier, and far crazier than any Idols; it’s a true camp spectacle. It’s like the Olympics with glitter, wind machines, big hair, and cheesy pop music.

The finals air tomorrow night. You can be forgiven for not following along this year (or any year, really), but for those experiencing Eurovision FOMO, we've curated your weekend soundtrack below.

Ukraine: Zlata Ognevich, “Gravity”

Perfect For: Waking up with the sunrise on Saturday morning and doing yoga while on MDMA.

Ukraine is one of my favorite Eurovision countries, and while this isn’t an all-timer, it’s enough: the music video is Lisa Frank in space. There are metal flowers, butterflies, computer-generated forests, and not one but two unicorns. It’s a shame that the semifinal performance didn’t quite live up to the spectacle, because for a schmaltzy ballad, it’s just over-the-top enough to work for me.

Azerbaijan: Farid Mammadov, “Hold Me”

Perfect For: Wrapping up a threesome.

This would simply be another typical Eurovision ballad, but the performance takes things to a surreal level. There’s a guy in a box and a woman in an extravagant red dress and a climactic ending. Should we be concerned about the guy in the box?

Romania: Cezar, “It’s My Life”

Perfect For: Inspiring your next hip hopera project.

My Romanian friends are so embarrassed by this entry, but I love it. “It’s My Life” has Eurovision’s strange alchemic formula perfected: all you need is some minor populism and a statue of a Romanian dude singing in an operatic falsetto for three straight minutes. Cezar is Klaus Nomi as a contemporary pop star.

Serbia: Moje 3, “Ljubav je svuda”

Perfect For: Drinking a bottle of champagne each with your friends and having an informal mosh pit in your living room in which the head-banging is actually sort of disarmingly aggressive.

Serbia failed to qualify in the first semifinal, and it came as a bit of a shock. The Serbs have a strong Eurovision pedigree, and the initial versions of “Ljubav je svuda” were fantastic. But it failed in later rounds, and it’s a shame, because the version from the Serbian final is everything I want: classic girl-group Europop with a few diva belts, a loud chorus, and choreography that would fit right in on a RuPaul’s Drag Race runway challenge.

Finland: Krista Sigfrieds, “Marry Me”

Perfect For: Convincing a party you have an exclusive Ke$ha leak.

The music video converted me on this one. It’s a work of genius. The leather-clad girl group! The kidnapping! The wedding scene! It’s like a particularly demented Bridezillas. The song is maddeningly catchy (try to get that "oh-oh, ding-dong" gibberish out of your head), and Krista's been compared to Ke$ha or Katy Perry quite a bit, which is valid, but it also strikes me as something off the new Tegan & Sara album—except with a sense of humor. (The performance is worth a watch, too.)

Germany: Cascada, “Glorious”

Perfect For: THE CLUB.

One of the reasons I love Eurovision is because I adore poppy Eurodance music, and Cascada are known for taking regular pop songs and making them Eurodance pop songs. The result is pure, over-the-top, glittery madness. I can’t listen to it without doing hand motions. If I were a drag queen, this would be my theme song.

Ireland: Ryan Dolan, “Only Love Survives”

Perfect For: Drumming, shirtless, while wearing leather pants.

Shirtless drummers in leather pants!

Montenegro: Who See, “Igranka”

Perfect For: Drugs?

Rap rarely ever does well in Eurovision, but this is the best entries I can remember. I love the belting stutter chorus, and the video is suitably bonkers. I was pulling for it, but unfortunately, it didn’t quite do well enough in its semi performance. I’ll miss them on Saturday.

Bulgaria: Elitsa Todorova and Stoyan Yankulov, “Samo shampioni”

Perfect For: Reminding yourself that, yes, pop music can always get worse.

Another one of those only-in-Eurovision sort of performances. You've got a two-stepping bagpipe player, a three-piece on backup vocals, and two sets of vertically-mounted floor toms with glow-in-the-dark sticks. I have no idea what’s going on here. Neither did the Eurovision voters, and it didn’t make it to the final.

Greece: Koza Mostra feat. Agathon Iakovidis, “Alchohol is Free”

Perfect For: Sweating it out on Sunday morning.

Rock is a difficult sell at Eurovision—standing behind your instruments/mic stand doesn’t always go over well. You need energy to win. Ska, on the other hand, which is all energy and mugging at the camera, is a pretty good fit. With "Alcohol is Free," Greece mixes ska with Greek elements, adds an old guy with a David Crosby mustache, and comes out with a pretty fun song. It’s certainly got the most aspirational chorus of the night. Say it with me now: Alcohol is free, alcohol is free. (Except when it's not.)

Eurovision's Grand Final airs at 9 p.m. CET (3 p.m. EST) on Saturday—the perfect brunch time in most of the states. You can stream it for free here. You might want a mimosa.

Abby Waysdorf is an American who lives in the Netherlands. Her Eurovision playlist is almost six hours long. You can find her on Twitter @voellig and read more of her on Eurovision here.

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It started innocently enough with a bottle of what I thought was men’s cologne. “My kingdom for a Queen,” read the box. Containing the liquid fragrance: a multi-faceted red glass bottle that resembled a human heart, tipped slightly to one side. The scent: a pleasant musk with floral undertones — a duality of masculinity and femininity that made my head flush with pheromones.

I returned to my Milan apartment to be greeted by a thick Spanish accent, “ohhh … Alexander McQueen,” gushed my flat-mate, “I love dat fragrance.” He was tall, dark, handsome, Paraguayan, and fabulous. Flavio — much like Cher — was known in the nightclub circuit by first name only. He was also famous (in more intimate circles) for sizzling up personal platters of spaghetti alla carbonara at 4 a.m. in nothing but a white robe — lit Marlboro Light in hand. His signature pasta ended up sprinkled with ash before reaching its final resting place: a watery grave of partially digested negroni.

Flavio and I got on quite well. Despite being at odds on both the gender and sexuality spectrums, we balanced each other perfectly. When our toilette broke, he would head out toward the city center, wrapped in a chic trench and Burberry scarf — all a ploy to hijack the “facilities” at La Rinascente without being detected (a move I coined at Bloomindales back in the states). Flavio was stylish and good-looking, but in my mind, he was only able to pull off such a unique brand of un-ladylike behavior for one reason: biologically he was a man. As a woman, I felt pressure to repress my inner man-child (a version of whom I would later marry — a separate tale entirely).

When I moved from Milan to New York, I brought only a single suitcase. Among my most prized possessions: a men's size small European-style bathing suit. In my experience, the fibers that make up most women’s swimsuit bottoms had an uncanny knack for sensing the most unfortunate moment to “rally the troops” on a unified march straight up my ass. The boy-shorts I’d picked up overseas paired well with a black bikini top — and were the first swimsuit bottoms I had ever owned with the staying power my kind of day at the beach required, i.e. serious frolicking and, on occasion, bending over to sculpt the likes of a curled up dog or a functional sand toilet. 

The swimsuit, like the fragrance (and, well, the sand toilet), was an early step in a quest to self-express. I aimed to do this outwardly by developing a signature look, which I like to call: soft-core cross-dressing. The ability to determine which pieces of a lady’s wardrobe can be purchased in the men’s section is something of an acquired proficiency — a true craft that I spent years honing on the streets of lower Manhattan. I took style cues from a seemingly endless trickle of tall, slender, effeminate men whose artfully messy ponytails swished back and forth on Crosby Street; their Rick Owens leather styled with denim — the good kind that, unbeknownst to most, is finished with some type of formaldehyde.

A general rule of thumb I picked up for a non-gender-bending dalliance in the wares of the opposite sex: avoid overtly feminine or masculine pieces. Opt instead for those that fall within a cultural frame of reference, and re-imagine them in a modern way. For instance, I might pick up a V-neck cardigan with suede elbow patches to pair with a narrow pant, an oversized raglan-sleeved crewneck jumper, or a bowler’s hat (a la the famous Milan Kundera novel). Sure, I received some less than complimentary comments from other straight females, e.g. “you’re going to wear that?” And admittedly, I’ve made some heavy missteps along the way — most notably a pair of board shorts that will live on in digital perpetuity as a reminder that I was the lucky recipient of my father’s waistline.

On a recent trip to Germany, my unisex pride reached a real culmination. I was standing in line at a dance club on the outskirts of Berlin, my long hair unwashed, wearing a snug motorcycle jacket with skinny gray jeans — rolled up to reveal a pair of desert boots and two unshaven ankles. And that’s when I realized: I look like a German man. Had I still smoked, a cigarette would have dropped right out of my mouth. It was this precise moment that I began to understand who I was. After spending almost the entire decade prior trying to look attractive to men, at some point in my mid-twenties, I realized intellect was a much better editor than a pair of heels and a push-up bra. If my thoughts alone didn’t repel him, he stood half a chance.

Even more importantly, I knew that I no longer wanted to be a passive consumer of culture, to drink the Harper’s Bazaar Kool-Aid season after season. Through dress, I had a voice to assert my own take on womanhood: that being a female need not define your role in society. While our culture’s current gender binary does nothing to promote the true self, it does give us a box to break out of — if we want to. Still, gender may predict more than any of us are willing to admit. For instance, I still love the Alexander McQueen fragrance I picked out that day in Milan. However, I remain disappointed to have learned from Flavio that, in fact, I’d purchased his favorite women’s perfume.

Sarah Kasbeer is a fashion writer, satirist, and creative producer working in New York City. She loves dogs and speaks Italian — poorly. You can follow her latest endeavors on sarahkasbeer.tumblr.com.

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[In April, an animal] tender went into Armani's enclosure and received quite a shock.

Armani, sometime during the previous night, had given birth to another baby.

The sudden appearance of little Archie was a surprise, to say the least. The gestation period for anteaters is six months. Armani and Alf had not been back together long enough to do what they needed to do to put the cycle of life into gear a second time.

How to explain Armani's miracle? Let's borrow from the Greenwich Time story:

Alf had somehow gotten the keys to Armani's pen one night in October.

Alf had gotten the keys to Armani's pen one night in October.

"Arghhh!" he bellowed, fumbling with the chain. He couldn't find the right key. "Ack!" The trenchcoat was slipping off his back, and he was losing his balance on the groundhog's shoulders.

Finally, the lock clicked, the bolt rotated, and the door swung open. "Armani," he whispered.

Dr. Margarita Woc-Colburn [...] said some scientific papers have mentioned the scenario in which an animal's body pauses a pregnancy until environmental conditions are right.

"Mmm, yeah, I'm just not feelin' it at the moment," Armani announced on ladies' night one Friday. "I'm gonna just press pause, you know?"

"My guess is they thought they had him separated," Belhumeur said. "We've seen incredible feats of breeding success. We've had animals breed through fences."

The chain link jiggled one final time, and Alf slowly backed away. "Arrivederci," Armani said, into to the dark.

Belhumeur said she thinks the most likely scenario is that the two anteaters were, somehow, able to mate.

Belhumeur said she thinks the most likely scenario is that the two anteaters were, somehow, able to conduct a DIY in vitro fertilization. "I am going to dig up the entire anteater area looking for crushed glass beakers and other evidence of amateur-to-intermediate 'science stuff' going on," she explained.

Off in the background, Armani winked.

[Greenwich Time | Atlantic Wire | Photo of scheming anteaters via guppiecat/Flickr]

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It's just a bit of fun most of the time, but it seems to me to carry a subtext of "this is funny because it's ludicrous that we would be attracted to one another," and as such it makes me really uncomfortable when this flirting is directed at me by a girl who's under the impression that we're both straight. I know that a lot of people flirt platonically and recreationally, but sadly I am not one of them. I am really crap at flirting. I just go red and get awkward at the best of times. I wouldn't want them to think that I've been perving on them, or getting any undercover kicks from something that they believed was completely platonic. It would be like accidentally invading a safe space. Do you know any good ways to react to this kind of thing?

I think, more than anything else, you need to chill out about this situation. Some people are just flirtatious – they flirt with potential partners, but they also flirt with friends, coworkers, baristas, and anyone who happens to cross their path. They flirt because they like attention, or as a way of procuring favors, or just because it's fun. And they flirt because it's often hard to tell where to draw the line between friendly, casual, humorous interaction and Prelude to Sexy Times. As someone who is at least an intermediate flirt – an inveterate user of pet names and innuendo, a physical-affection addict – I feel reasonably comfortable speaking for all of us: We flirt with everyone, gay or straight, lady or dude, hot or (well actually all of my friends are hot so I guess I seldom have occasion to flirt with non-hot people). This is not something your friends only do in their No Homos Allowed clubhouse. They would, with almost 100% certainty, behave exactly the same way if they were aware of your queerness. There's nothing intrusive or creepy about you allowing it or participating in it.

That said, a couple of caveats. One, flirting and sexual propositions that you're uncomfortable with – even if they're intended in jest – are not the kind of behavior you should have to put up with from your friends. If the reason you don't like your friends rubbing up on you is simply that you don't like it, regardless of whether they know you're gay, you can and should ask them to knock it off. A simple “Hey, I don't really like being touched like that by someone I'm not dating. Could you please stop?” should be sufficient. If it's not, your boundaries are being disrespected and you should think about finding better friends. 

Two, if you're spending a fair amount of time or have reached a moderate level of intimacy with a friend or group of friends, and they don't know that you're gay, it's not unthinkable that they might have a little bit of weirdness when they figure it out – not because they feel perved on, but because they're bummed that you weren't comfortable saying something sooner. Everyone likes to feel special and trusted and be the first to know things. I'm not saying this to pressure you into coming out to new people before you're ready; I just want you to be aware that, if things are a little stiff for a day or two, it's probably for this reason, and not because they want to retroactively rescind their flirtation.

Hi Lindsay! I have a nebulous, weird question, but I want to talk to someone about it, and who better than internet strangers! I'm a straight, cis lady who, for a large part of the last six years, was madly in love with a man. We met in college, we almost got together, he ended up falling in love with my gorgeous best friend and dating her, all while remaining best friends with me, telling me about their relationship, tearing me up inside — the usual thing I would do to myself, being insecure and not conventionally attractive. We kept in touch after we graduated, and I always thought if we lived in the same place we'd get together. Cut to now, a few years out of college, he moved to the city near my grad school, and when I worked there this summer we hung out all the time, and he was very flirty with me, and all my friends were constantly saying it was only a matter of time before we got together. I was elated. I fell right back into what we had in college, and I was absolutely smitten.

This weekend, I was visiting him in the city. We went out to dinner, he was buying me drinks and flirting and all these good things, I had (jesus christ embarrassingly) put on cute underwear in the hope that we would hook up. We got to the last bar of the night, and he told me his friend would be joining us. I thought, great! new people! all fun! When his friend got there and texted to ask where in the bar we were, he looked at me and said, "Actually, he's my boyfriend." Dream boy, who I had fantasized a whole wonderful life with, is gay. Which is great! The boyfriend seems awesome, the boy seems elated, and I'm so happy and proud that he finally felt comfortable coming out to me. I'm also devastated. I feel like such a selfish jerk, and I'm not at all upset he's gay, I'm just sad that this possibility that I had really thought would happen for YEARS is now off the table so definitively. I guess my question is — am I the worst? Is it unreasonable to be sad about this? WILL I EVER FIND LOVE? (Just kidding about that last one. Sort of.)

Oh sweetheart, you are not the worst! It's brutal to carry that kind of hope around for such a long time only to find out that not only is it not happening, it was never even really an option. You didn't just want to hook up with this guy – you genuinely believed you were about to. Finding out he's off the market effectively takes a sledgehammer to all your most cherished fantasies. Realizing he'll never be on the market – at least not for you – is so much salt in the wound. (It's not a mixed metaphor! Sledgehammers can cause wounds.) That doesn't make you selfish or homophobic or unreasonable; it makes you human.

So take the time you need to be sad about this. If you have a friend or two you can confide in, so much the better, but don't unburden yourself to your crush, as that will only make things super-awkward. Have a few wine-and-Netflix nights, cry over some pictures of you two together, sing embarrasingly heartfelt songs at karaoke, and then, when you feel ready, put those cute underwear on again and get back out there. Yes, you will find love! Does your crush's boyfriend have a hot, straight brother? I bet he does. You should ask.

So I have a queer chick question. I recently moved to a new city, and about a month into living here, I met this really awesome girl. We really hit it off and we're hanging out quite often, I totally dig her. However, she has a long-distance girlfriend (like way long distance) AND she's going to be moving away from my city this summer. I don't ask about her girlfriend a lot because awkward, but I don't think they're super monogamous. Meaning, I know my new friend has had at least one drunken hookup recently.

I think she's in this long-distance relationship not because she's completely in-love but because this was her first girlfriend and I think it's easy for her to stay in the relationship since the girlfriend is far away. That being said, I'm not trying to cause any problems or get in the way of anything. But, I really, really like her and I want to do something about it, but I also don't want to lose her as a friend. Nothing has happened between us, and it's all very PG so I can't even tell if she's open to anything.

So, my question: Is it worth saying something to her knowing that she has a girlfriend and knowing that she's going to be moving away relatively soon? She's my only really close friend here so far, which is another reason why I'm hesitant.

Let me know if you have any advice!

Boy, do I ever! Let's start with the big one: If you have a crush on someone who's taken, do not attempt to diagnose her relationship problems. Just don't do it. Your head is full of wishful thinking and sex-chemicals and you are not at all capable of an objective evaluation of the state of affairs. You've never had a heart-to-heart with your friend about her girlfriend – you don't even know for sure whether they're monogamous – so take a step back and realize that when you say “I don't think she's completely in love,” what you mean is “I don't want her to be completely in love because that would get in the way of me seeing her naked.” You're making up stories about her relationship to make yourself feel justified in (eventually, maybe) trying to break them up. Cut that out. If you're going to try to break them up, be honest with yourself about it.

Also, as a follow-up, don't try to break them up. It won't work, and you'll look like a jerk for trying. Just be as awesome as you can in your friend's general direction, and hope that she realizes you're the one for her. Don't try to sleep with her until and unless a) she's single, or b) she discloses to you that her relationship is non-monogamous AND you feel confident that hooking up with someone who has a girlfriend will not wreck you emotionally. (And don't kid yourself that you know she's non-monogamous because she boned some girl. People cheat. Don't fuck cheaters, it's bad for your karma.)

In the, let's be honest, somewhat unlikely event that things go your way and you end up with a clear shot at naked times with this girl, take the time to ask yourself what you want before you proceed. Do you just want to get laid? If so, discuss what that would mean for your friendship first, but basically go for it, what the hell. But, do you want her to be your girlfriend? In what will soon become a long-distance relationship? Knowing, as you do, that in her previous long-distance relationship she drunkenly hooked up with someone else (with or without her girlfriend's approval)?

If the answer, after thinking seriously about all the complications, is still “yes,” then you are well and truly smitten and I give you leave to make a move. Just one time, tell your friend that you're crazy about her and if she were ever single you would love to make out. Then never mention it again unless she brings it up first. If she leaves her girlfriend for you, she likes you. If not, you're awesome and you'll be fine anyway.

I have been dating someone for nearly six months, and our relationship should be over. She has lied to me several times about having or getting a job, lied to me about having a place to live, lied to me about paying rent/bills, lied to me about obviously real serious Life Shit that I can't really handle anymore. In addition to this, she is manipulative, possessive, jealous, and controlling. I feel isolated from my friends after months of being guilted into spending time with her and only her because "that's what people in love do," I feel mentally exhausted from having to explain every day how a person should be treated or how to listen to what I say. This is also my first queer relationship, and it's starting to feel very damaging to me that the person I love constantly belittles my sexuality by calling me "actually straight" or accusing me every day of cheating on her with cis dudes.

The problem is that I moved in with her, hoping it would solve the problems we had before we had our own space, but things have escalated. I learned that she throws and destroys my things when we argue, and I've turned into someone who screams (I have never screamed like this before in my life). I have a career that pays enough for me to live on, but I cannot continue to support her, which I have done since basically the beginning of our relationship (I'm talking food, housing, clothes: everything). I loved her, so I did it, but at this point I feel very taken advantage of (not to mention broke) and I just don't want to feel this way anymore. In the past I was desperate to fix things, empathized with her depression, and have expressed this, but things are beyond fixing at this point because she refuses to make any moves to change. I've told her many times that I'm not happy, I don't think we're good for each other, that we hurt each other and should not be together, but she refuses to accept it.

Yet... another problem is that because of our relationship and her depression, she has also so far isolated herself from her friends that even if I did kick her out (also: how? do you kick someone out who refuses to leave?) she wouldn't even have a place to go. I feel desperate to get out of this situation but have no idea how, or how to stop worrying and feeling responsible for her well-being.

This is a really heartbreaking letter, but it is also a pretty impressive object lesson in one of the Major Relationship Rule: Moving in with someone will NOT fix your relationship issues. What it will do, instead, is make it impossible to get away from them. Cohabitation introduces new sources of stress and conflict into your life, and the fact that now you can fuck on the sofa without worrying about when your roommate will be home will not be novel enough to keep you from fighting for very long. If your relationship is already on the rocks, moving in together will only magnify your problems – as, sadly, you have already figured out.

I'm so sorry that you had to learn this lesson in such an awful way, but now that you're in this mess, there's nothing to do but try to extricate yourself – and as soon as possible, please. What you're experiencing – throwing things, destroying your property, accusing you of cheating – is abusive. Your girlfriend sounds like someone who has a lot of difficulties, and I'm sorry for that too, but her depression does not excuse her shitty behavior. All you can do is hope that losing you will be the wake-up call that helps her deal with her issues.

So how do you get her out of your house? There are two ways you can handle this. One, you can evict her (or ask the landlord to evict her, if you rent), and if she doesn't leave at the appointed time, you can call the cops. Or two, you can move out yourself, which, while more expensive in the short term, does at least mean that you won't have to expend all your energy trying to convince her to leave. Once you're gone and your name is off the lease, whether she finds a new place or steps up and starts paying rent on the old one is up to her.

I fully recognize that both of these options are stressful and uncomfortable, and that no matter what you do, things are probably going to be miserable for a little while. I wish I had a secret, easy, painless third option to offer you. All I can tell you is that, down the road, you'll be so happy and proud of yourself for doing what you had to do to escape a toxic situation. If you can, try to do the bulk of your moving when she's not at home. Call your friends; they'll probably be so happy that you're leaving her that, no matter how long it's been since you last spoke, they'll show up at your door fifteen minutes later ready to help you move.

Finally, let yourself be worried about her if you want. It's only natural; you care about her, and your breakup will make life more difficult for her in the short term as well. But don't let your feelings of concern and sadness be manipulated to keep you in a relationship that's making you miserable. Remember that the only way she's ever going to change her ways – and the only way she's ever going to be happy – is if she learns that there are real, tangible consequences for her actions. Leaving is, without a doubt, the best thing for you. Keep reminding yourself that, no matter how vehemently she disagrees, it's the best thing for her as well.

Previously: The Rhinestone-Encrusted Manicure

Lindsay King-Miller is also on Twitter. Do you have a question for her? 

Photo by Anna Sedneva, via Shutterstock

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Incidentally, here's what Chopard has for everyone these days.

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Schultz points out, rightly, that no one in the book is worth a bottle of bathtub gin: What does our narrator Nick do when swaggering douchebag Tom breaks his mistress Myrtle’s nose, for example? Nothing. But the really detestable member of the bunch is Daisy, who has no character. She spends the book being languidly beautiful and wealthy, ignoring her child, flirting with her cousin, and leading on her old flame, before running away with her racist brute of a husband.

Daisy may not be the technical villain of Gatsby (Tom, a proto-bro, gets that honor) but she still sucks, and if it weren’t for her a couple key players in the book would be alive at the end of it. In her honor, here are the top 10 detestable characters of literature—a brief rundown of bad guys who aren’t the bad guys.

10. The Wizard of Oz (The Wonderful Wizard of Oz). Oz's nemesis, the Wicked Witch of the West, gets a bad rap. This self-described humbug doesn’t have much to recommend him. An escapee from his own world, he bluffs his way into absolute power over another and then uses his position mostly to manipulate others and advance his own ends. He promises a fellow brains and gives him nothing but a diploma—a shitty bargain if I’ve ever heard one, though a good cynical metaphor for a college education. At least he doesn’t also make the scarecrow take out $200,000 in student loans for the privilege.

9. Anna Karenina (Anna Karenina). An indifferent mother and a fickle wife, she throws her whole life away for a most unworthy nobleman and then commits the worst sin a character can: she becomes boring. If it weren’t for Kitty and Levin, who among us would read the novel to its predictably Russian conclusion?

8. Samson (The Bible). The temptress Delilah is traditionally blamed for Samson’s downfall, but Samson—a genuine meathead—had problems long before she started lurking in the shadows with scissors. In the lesser-known beginning of his story, he makes the same mistake with a different woman: he confides a secret to her that she shares with 30 other guys, and then Samson has to kill them, along with countless others. Yet he falls for the same exact trick when Delilah waltzes in. “Fool me once,” you know?

7. Dr. Frankenstein (Frankenstein). Dude, what are you doing sewing corpse pieces together and then bringing them to life? Haven’t you ever seen a zombie movie? No wonder you end up racked with guilt and vainly chasing your monster through the Arctic Circle. You’ll get no sympathy from me.

6. Reverend Dimmesdale (The Scarlet Letter). We can admire Hester for taking her lumps in silence and refusing to name her lover, but she wouldn’t have had to be such a martyr if that coward of the cloth Dimmesdale could have admitted to their community, and to Hester’s obsessively vengeful husband, that he played a co-equal role in the Terrible—and Terribly Hot—Sex that Destroyed Everything (and produced the awesome Pearl).

5. Raskolnikov (Crime and Punishment). Not because he’s a killer—we sure can love us some literary killers, can’t we?—but because this over-thinking hypochondriac won’t stop agonizing about whether he is extraordinary. If you have to ask, the answer is no.

4. Claudio (Much Ado About Nothing). The bastard Don John lives to make trouble, so we expect no less from him, but it’s Claudio who makes us grind our teeth by humiliating his innocent bride at the altar (!) in front of everyone including her father (!!) because he is under the mistaken impressions that 1) virginity is tops and 2) Hero has given hers away. Even when he is told that his public accusation killed her, he shows little remorse—until later, when he finds out she never did give up her V-card. Whoops! Just because Hero forgives him doesn’t mean we should.

3. Amy (Little Women). You try any of that burning-my-stories shit with me, and I would not just let you drown in that frozen pond, I would push you in myself. Lime-eater.

2. Ashley Wilkes (Gone With the Wind). Melanie—nearly dead from childbirth and half-dressed—still finds the strength to try to help Scarlet kill the evil Yankee who sneaks into Tara. Ashley, her wishy-washy wimp of a husband, can only marry his cousin, lust for his cousin’s best friend, mope, sigh, and screw up one of the hottest couples in American literature.

1. Every character in Wuthering Heights.

Ester Bloom is still mad that Amy ended up with Laurie. Follow her @shorterstory.

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