I was talking to a creative writing student the other day and the topic came round to 'chick lit'.
I'm not a great consumer of the form, preferring instead to read Kafka (at the moment at least).
However, I did confess to dipping into quite a few when I was studying my MA.
I described the books as being like bubble gum, in that, when you got to the end you didn't know whether to spit it out or swallow it (no jokes please).
In essence if you spit it out, reject the simplicity of the story and the wildly happy ending you are left feeling unsatisfied and empty.
Whereas, if you swallow it, accept the ending and allow yourself to feel that warm fuzzy feeling, you are left with the risk of it sticking in your stomach giving you overly sweet expectations of life that are liable to make you very sick at some point.
To sum up, chick lit is dangerous.
It either leaves you feeling empty and hollow or walking around in a constant fairy tale daze where every cloud is simply sparkly and pink.