Romance novels
The other day, I noticed (gasp) that I had gone through my queue of books to read. I just gotta read every night before I go to bed or my brain withers to the size of a 100 year old peanut. So I got a few paperbacks at the grocery store (my first mistake...but I'm a firm believer in amalgamating errands. Damn, I sound smarter than I am when I use big words like that!) I started one the other day and realized it was a tacky romance novel. I mean, who the hell reads these things? And how many times can a couple have sex in a 24 hour period without undergoing spontaneous combustion and winding up as two little piles of cinders on the floor? The guys who write these things either must not be gettin any and have to write sex into their lives, or, the more likely possibility--they know there's money in taking the public's hormones hostage. I felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled every other sentence. Sure my lust factor went up a few notches (lucky for my husband) but I don't like being controlled like that. So, I tossed it in the trash this morning, disgusted. By the end of the evening, I'm sure my husband will have rummaged through the trash to recover it, but not without having to wipe off the coffee grounds and pasta sauce. I make my man WORK for it, honey! Do any of you guys feel the same about these Harliquin novels (should be harlot novels, but they didn't check with me before finishing up their incorporation papers. Oh well.)