Last night I drank an entire bottle of wine alone in my room and I can’t remember what I did but it probably involved listening to Black Sabbath while trying on a bunch of my clothes and pretending I’m Cher Horowitz getting ready for school in the morning. I also know that I didn’t manage to drunk text anyone, which is good.
So yeah, I have bedsores now from lying in the same position all day today. I’m not exaggerating. The only time I got out of bed was to get more diet coke to nurse my poor body back to health.
Anyway, you know how I said I can’t remember what I did? Well, I found some evidence. A little clue, if you will, about my actions last night. I found this:
This is the romance novel I’m reading right now. It’s by Sandra Brown and it’s a three-books-in-one kinds thing called “Texas! Trilogy.” Don’t judge me. Especially because I’ve read this multiple times. Like maybe at least seven times. I don’t know why. Some mysteries in life aren’t meant to be solved.
Apparently during my vino binge, I got a little angry with this book. Angry enough to rip out a few pages. I honestly have no recollection of this and that scares me. I imagine myself laughing maniacally while tearing the pages out with my teeth and blathering on and on about how love is a myth and men are the devil. I’m worried, though. What else did I do? I think I might have killed a man.
The thing is, I actually really love romance novels. Or I thought I did, anyway.
I like them, not because they’re realistic, but because they’re the exact opposite. Who wants to read a realistic romance? Not to be too cynical, but there would be no romance. There would be pseudo-romance. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing because romance novels are super lame. Here’s a direct quote from this book:
“He listened very closely to something else – his own being. He lusted after this woman’s body more than all the other bodies he’d ever known put together. His single sexual experience with her stood out above all the rest. He’d had many that were lustier, crazier, faster, slower, but none as heart-piercingly sweet, none that still haunted his mind.”
GAG ME WITH A SPOON, PLZ.
Let me give you the pseudo-romantic translation:
“He wants to bang this woman again because she is still a mystery to him. He’s a bit of a manwhore, yet he’s never had sex with a woman like her and he really wants to do it again. She’s still so shiny and new to him, which is why he can’t stop thinking about her. At least until he’s playing video games or complaining about his fantasy football team.”
I’m not saying that men in real life don’t have the capacity for romance. I’m not saying romance is dead. That’s not what I’m saying at all.
What I’m saying is that sometimes the fantasy is better than the reality. And that’s why women read this stuff.
Alright, well, I have a mighty big hankering for a forbidden love affair, so I’ve got some doctoring to do on this here book.
Oh, and while we’re on the topic of romance nowadays, you should check out this Menagerie Mag article, cause it’s so true it hurts my brain.