I’m in a state of mush…

I have come to a certain point in my life, where I seem to be desparately out of touch with the real world.  I have started listening to sad love songs (I’m so sick of love songs, so tired of tears), crude hate songs (waiter na guwapito ano bang meron dito) and interestingly weird songs (I wanna see ya grill…yaa…yaa grill); I seem to be daydreaming all to often; and, worst, I have started devouring romance novels (Stella stared at those unhuman black eyes, smouldering with liquid fire.  "You brute oaf!" she screamed as he locked her up in his room, laughing as he did so.)

Yes, my beautiful friends, yours truly has been secretly languishing in the corner of her bed, crying as the lovely heroine battles personal disgust over the oh-so charming object of her desire and being oh-so kilig as the stupid oaf professes his love to the voluptous vixen/angel/heroine.

I am quite stupefied at the sudden change that has taken over me.  Imagine being used to reading novels done in the spirit of social relevance (echos!), morals and imaginative care; imagine being used to finishing it for a few weeks, taking in every word and scene.  Imagine all that, and then imagine me during the holiday season, in the corner of our house, head bent over a thick volume of Harlequin Romances, halfway through the familiar plot and characters.

Ah…the tragedy of failure in the arena of love…how cruel are you?  This is the disease, I believe of women of twenty plus ages…interesting, huh?  Well how about seeing a heavyset, tricycle guy, reading a copy of PHR’s Kristine series…and you think we ladies are crazy?  Take that!  Hah!

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