Confession
I have a problem.
This weighs heavily on my mind. I fear that people will find out about it and shriek.
And now I'm broadcasting it to relieve the weight on my shoulders.
I love Chick books.
Books by Meg Cabot. Books that the Times call's "Chick Lit" about sexually empowered women in their 20-s making their way through New York's post modern jungle. Books written in the form of interoffice memos that are about relationships within said office.
Books about girl detectives who think they're fat.
I love them.
My wife reads them. She falls asleep. I read them. Lots of them. Pages and pages of emotional instability, and trite storylines, and witty but somewhat superficial banter.
I take them from her bedside. I read them. I return them to her bedside neatly and memorize the page number to avoid having to out myself with a bookmark.
She's on to me.
Recently I've been getting sloppy, like an alcoholic leaving the drawer to his hidden bottle set open. Subconsciously trying to get caught.
I feel better now.
This weighs heavily on my mind. I fear that people will find out about it and shriek.
And now I'm broadcasting it to relieve the weight on my shoulders.
I love Chick books.
Books by Meg Cabot. Books that the Times call's "Chick Lit" about sexually empowered women in their 20-s making their way through New York's post modern jungle. Books written in the form of interoffice memos that are about relationships within said office.
Books about girl detectives who think they're fat.
I love them.
My wife reads them. She falls asleep. I read them. Lots of them. Pages and pages of emotional instability, and trite storylines, and witty but somewhat superficial banter.
I take them from her bedside. I read them. I return them to her bedside neatly and memorize the page number to avoid having to out myself with a bookmark.
She's on to me.
Recently I've been getting sloppy, like an alcoholic leaving the drawer to his hidden bottle set open. Subconsciously trying to get caught.
I feel better now.
4 Comments:
wow man,... I don't know what to say... I wish I could say you are not alone.... but that would be a lie. You might be the only guy on the planet with this problem!
See you man, I just rented Bed of Roses on DVD.
Keith
Dude, it's not good. Go watch Die Hard. Or read a Tom Clancy novel. Something...otherwise I can't be your friend.
I'll follow up with you on this later. Right now, I've got a date with tissues and a Mix CD of curtain calls.
That's funny. I've read every Nicholas Sparks book. You are not alone.
You're despicable.
Honestly...it's like Jewel says in her beautiful yet heartbreaking ballad to the emotional distress of modern feminine spirituality, "Who Will Save Your Soul?," or like Tori Amos says in the hauntingly delicate "Scarlet's Walk," or like Paula Cole says in her empowering treatise on female sexuality "Feelin' Love,"... any man who will read such mamby-pamby sissy-prissy books as those you are---
---oh, hold on---
...
...sorry, I gotta run...I have bundt cake in the oven, and if it burns, I swear I'll just fall to pieces.
Peace,
Justin
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