By Kayla Kibbe Like many children who grow up to go $100,000 in debt for a degree in English literature, I was a precocious reader — and I was super annoying about it. While other kids my age were priding themselves on finishing the Harry Potter series or lusting over Twilight, I spent middle school devouring literary classics, and like the know-it-all little shit that I was, I made damn sure everyone knew it. What I didn’t let on, however, was that this catalogue of supposedly boring, overwrought literature penned by sexually repressed authors beholden to rigid mores of yore was actually a tr…