Earlier today I felt like getting up on a little virtual soapbox. From that lofty vantage point, I was going to complain about how far too many of the books I pick up end up being absolutely ridiculously lame because they are chock full with attractive men who are absolute chumps breaking their backs to gain the attention and affection of really ordinary, lack-lustre woman that are Too Stupid To Live.
I still think those sorts of books would be like poison to my particular system if consumed in large doses since I find terminally stupid fictional women to be the worst kind of toxic waste. However, after dealing with crappy news from the dentist and days filled with trying to teach bumbling real men how to use a mouse and keyboard, I am beginning to understand the appeal of disposable or replacable fictional women that I can kill with mind in order to assume their identity. Then, as I read, I can pretend to that fictional me is the one hooking up with really hot supernatural creatures.
I don’t think I have a preference for the type of paranormal whatcha-ma-call-it that they turn out to be so long as they think I’m awesome just because I can a) breathe oxygen and b) walk forward on my own two feet if properly motivated. If they have spent a thousand years waiting for me? That would be great. And if they have come from the far reaches of space to court fictional me? That’s even better.
I suspect part of this sudden acceptance of putting up with lousy fake women for dashing fake men is because February has arrived.* But also I have felt this way before during times of great stress or anxiety in the recent and distant past too. Unfortunately and because this interest never seizes me for long, I’m mostly at a loss for what to read.
So if anyone can think of books that will allow me to feel like a special, useless princess for a few hours and for no apparent reason? Let me know.
* The entire month of February and I have a really bad history between us. Valentine’s Day has nothing to do with it.