A really, really dumb choice was made by me last night: one I haven't made for awhile (and in surviving this day I know exactly why not)...I stayed up until 3am reading a book.
And it wasn't even a book worthy of dark below-the-eye hollows and cranky outbursts and dragging-myself-around-like-a-bag-of-sand sentiments.
It neared...gasp...the crap found in harlequins. (Yes, I actually took a university course in which we had to read harlequins, as well as westerns and mysteries. Called "Jane, Dick, and Cowboys" the title allured me - as well the syllabus that, after eyeballing, seemed to promise a few "easy credits".)
It was crap. Crap, crap, crap. And yet I devoured it, lost many hours of sleep, and donated precious amounts of irretrievable time to a mind-wasting activity that, admittedly, momentarily gave some pleasure.
There. I said it.
Why did I keep reading when pervasive thoughts of "yeah, right...as if this would ever happen...and why would I want it to anyway? Does she really think he will be Mr. Romance for the entirety of their existences? What planet did she come from? How did he ever make it into this universe? Why do women eat up this obviously ridiculous crap?"???
And why do I feel so darn guilty? Well, I know the answer to that: because it was a dumb, dumb thing to do. What eternal value did this activity have?
There. I said it.
Crap, crap, crap.
Lesson learned. No more late nights of junky book reading. (Or at the very least could I read something worthy of the accompanying sleep deprivation?)
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