When I should've been reading Catcher in the Rye this weekend, I was instead reading horribly exaggerated and cheesy romance novels. Four of them, to be exact. You may wonder why I would choose to gorge myself on bad writing and brain-cell-killing-plots, and actually, so am I. All it gave me was a headache and a reason to pout.
Not to sound cynical or anything, but whoever created romance novels, perfect man, scenic setting, and all, are full of crap. I always take the time to read the author's biography in the back for some reason, and inevitably I find out that they are "living happily in [insert obscure small town here] with their own prince charming" or some such cutesy thing. What fresh hell is that? How did they divine this fantastical, completely unrealistic idea of love and devotion from such a normal little life? That is really what I would pay money to know, because I can assure you that their husbands probably spend more time working in a dimly-lit cubicle then courting them with four dozen red roses a day, and I'm pretty sure none of their names are ridiculously manly-sounding, like Jed or Blaine or Sterling.
When you combine these ideals with fantasy, it gets even worse. Dragons can actually morph into your perfect soul mate, according to these books. So can vampires, who are in fact unbelievably sensitive about your abhorrence of blood, according to these books. And if a rugged, darkly-handsome man tries to kill you in an alley one night, he is probably some poor member of an ancient race of supernatural warriors with a tortured soul and a soft heart, again, according to these fine pieces of literature.
What I'm getting at here is that fantasy romance novels are pure drivel, and should probably be avoided at all costs. Save yourself from an aching head and unrealistic expectations about love. Just read Catcher in the Rye and call it a day.
No comments:
Post a Comment