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pexels-photo-704977.jpegI’ve come undone. I totally blame poor literature for my demise. Last year while sitting in a waiting room bored to tears and having no wifi, I picked up a romance novel, read a few chapters, and completely snapped. The cover, which is the best part, had been violently torn away, probably by some soul more pathetic than I. No doubt she smuggled the thing away to her apartment full of cats and propped it up next to a carton of Haagan Daz. I so totally would have.

I’m not sure what broke me, but the lily sweet stench of unrequited love had a lot to do with it. Every heroine in these books has to bleed angst from her very pores. Will she or won’t she…..what?? Heck if I know. Like Bella, trapped in a Twilight prison of her own melodrama, angst itself is the fruit of all our romantic labors.

So what is angst? The dictionary says it is, “an acute but nonspecific sense of anxietyth or remorse.” Put that way, romance sounds a bit like a visit to the dentist for a root canal. “Oh darn, I should have brushed more…how much is this going to cost…will it hurt?” Acute and non specific anxiety, yes, I think I saw those words in a pharmaceutical commercial recently. We have medication for that.

Besides having a chronic anxiety disorder, our heroine must always be spirited, whatever the heck that is. I think it’s a bit like a back drop to give our conquering hero something to conquer. As a side note, these heroines are the wimpiest of women, who shame the very word “spirited.” Their rebellious nature usually involves passively getting themselves kidnapped, being splashed by a racing carriage, or laying in bed emotionally tormenting themselves for days on end. They are spirited in the same way a pile of pasta is spirited.

ladyofwinter_bg_042Now on to the good part, our hyper-masculine hero of the stolen cover art. The problem is, by the time he arrives on the scene, I’m so sick of our heroine, I just want to beg him to dispatch her without mercy! She has tormented me with her angst over you for the last six chapters. Frankly, I’m just about sick of it. It’s making me angsty. I mean, you’re awfully cute with your pirate outfit and muscles and all, but I’m really starting to doubt your sexuality. Is that a spray tan? Do you even like girls?

So I’ve cracked. Completely come undone. I have read one too many romance novels. I have totally despaired over the future of humankind. I have even worried a few members of my family. They toss me books from a safe distance, but I’m so busy consuming chocolate and foaming at the mouth, I just fling them back like an angst ridden pile of soggy noodles.

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