I tried to read it. Really, I tried. I got halfway through the first book and just could not will myself to go on. Maybe it was that I got annoyed with how they addressed one another so formally after having seen one another naked. Or that I was annoyed with her frivolous conversations with her inner goddess, a concept I take seriously. Perhaps because I think I've pretty much figured out how every single plot point gets resolved and didn't have the patience or attention span for two and a half more books. Wait, maybe it's because I dated a guy who wanted me to spank him and I thought that was about as erotic as cold mashed potatoes. Oh, and are we truly expected to believe that anyone could attain a college degree in the post-2000 era without owning a computer? It's poorly written, the characters are one-dimensional and I didn't care if they fell off a cliff into oblivion! It's filled with cliches that aren't interesting, blah, blah, blah. Maybe it's due to the fact that much of what is wildly popular, be it movies, books, television shows, fashion, simply does not engage me. Of course it has occurred to me that maybe I'm seething with jealousy and envy because I'm not a published author! Yet. No, that's not it. I feel that way when I wish I'd written something because it's so good, funny, eloquent, smart, fresh, brilliant, evocative. You can't make me read this trilogy. Not even if you tie me up with expensive ties or silk scarves and do unspeakably naughty things to me.