November 14, 2013

It's A Truth I Must Own Up To

After twenty-nine years of life (I don't know what the fuck Ordie O is laughing her ass off about) I'm reading romance novels. I'm a housewife who reads romance novels. Ugh.

Ya wanna wait two seconds before you write me off? Thank you.

Maybe this will help my case - I refuse to read anything with a naked male torso on the cover.

Wait, clarification - I refuse to read anything with a naked male torso wearing period pants. And by 'period' I don't mean the back of the closet pants we ladies wear during our monthly curse, I mean 'period' as in sixteenth century Duke trousers. Or more specifically, no historical romances for this girl.

Also, no vampires, werewolves, or otherwise non-human characters. This includes those that hunt the aforementioned paranormal entities. I'm kinda over billionaires, too. And spys because men are shady enough, a spy is just one who is a little better at being a lying bastard. Ain't nobody got time for that!

After reading Fifty Shades of Grey and Beautiful Disaster - no heroines under age 29. And no virgins. I mean really, if you haven't bought an overpriced tube of wrinkle cream or taken the walk of shame a time or two, I can't relate to you and therefore I cannot get on board with your obsession with the hero in your story. Even if he is the perfect blend of alpha-male bad-ass and sensitive future father of your children. 

That brings me to an issue I have with many romance books. The alpha-male bad-ass. Oh, so good in a Kristen Ashley story, not so good in real life. I can say this with 100% certainty - a relationship between me and any man Kristen Ashley created would have ended in bloodshed within two weeks. The first week and a half would have been spent having great romance novel sex, of course, but after that petered out, mother-fucker would have been on borrowed time because I'd be looking to beat him with a sock full of quarters for trying to boss me around. Christian Grey? That psycho would have been served with a restraining order by chapter three. Not even a closet full of designer clothes is worth that kind of fucked up. If you think about it in real life terms, I'm sooooo right on this.

So in conclusion, I read romance novels, but only the really good ones. Are we still friends?