I have had one and a half lousy boyfriends in this life. Fortunately I had those fellows early enough that I learned right quick what I wouldn’t stand for, and when the time came to get married I was able to pick a guy who had either grown out of the “Baby, I won’t do it again, I promise” stage or who had never been there in the first place.
Yet here I find myself once again at a place in my life where I keep believing what I suspect deep down to be horrible lies. All because I am desperate to love. I yearn to love, I hunger for it. So over and over again I fall for the line, the handsome face, the impressive size. I give willingly of my time, my money, and my passion only to have it all be wasted on another liar.
“Best Book of 2011”
“Reminiscent of The Stand”
“If you love Game Of Thrones, you’ll be swept away by this epic tale.”
The people who write book blurbs and book reviews are becoming more and more like that boyfriend I once had who would promise me a great date on Saturday night but then content himself to hanging around my house watching videos when Saturday actually rolled around. (If he showed up at all, that is.) I hang so much hope on the promises of a great story and then Whoosh! It’s gone with the wind. But not Gone With The Wind, which is actually an epic classic I love.
Every time I go to Amazon or GoodReads now, I feel like an embittered crone stepping into a smokey bar, resigned to overpriced booze and unoriginal come-ons, but always hoping in the deepest part of my soul that I’ll find someone real to go home with at closing time. I haven’t had much luck lately, though. That handsome popular guy all the girls wanted turned out to be an empty-headed windbag.* The old-fashioned, good-hearted guy was actually a preacher more interested in hearing himself bloviate than in sharing a good time with me.** The smart, sexy Oxonian turned out to be the kinkiest fetishist this side of Krafft-Ebing.***
A good book is hard to find, my friends. I’ve even been tempted to check out the bar down the street where Sandman Slim hangs out, because I read that I should call him for a good time. But I don’t usually swing that way. Urban fantasy is not my thing.
Part of my problem is that my True Love and I are being kept apart by some wicked plot by the folks who can’t get their act together and run Pottermore in a decent enough fashion for me to be able to buy the promised Harry Potter ebooks. I know Harry is technically a little bit young for me, but I don’t go to him for the gritty passion. We hang out for the pure, unsullied good time, the memories, the joy of having it all ahead of us.
Since all the new guys have been such a let-down and the first flower of youth is lost to me, I decided to ring up an old lover. Yes, I’ve been there already and it ended on kind of a shaky note. And I don’t know if he’ll really be there for me all the way through, because he has a track record of not showing up on time. But I’m familiar enough with him that I can enjoy his good qualities while overlooking the bad ones. So it’s back to A Song Of Ice And Fire I go. Until I’m ready to try believing the next fellow.
* Fall Of Giants
**North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell
***The Company Of Fellowes