flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
So, I have been known to read the occasional romance novel, particularly if it’s a. by Georgette Heyer, or b. involves some combination of the Regency period, girls disguised as boys, or Scotsmen, or c. is funny. That being said, I’m always embarrassed to be caught reading them, especially if they’re racy, so you can imagine my discomfort as I sat down at a Boston Market one day several years ago on my lunch break to read what I thought was a book of vampire-themed short stories (no sparkly ones, shut up) and discovered it was basically porn. By the way, it’s called ‘Bite’ if you’re in the market for that. There was thrusting and enfolding and all sorts of things you don’t really want to read while you’re trying to eat macaroni and cheese (or while my cat’s watching. Charlie’s surprisingly judgey for someone who eats string and licks his own crotch.), but better massive amounts of blushing than 20 minutes without a book, so I powered through.
“I can see your thoughts. Ew.” — Lord Charlie VonJudginton