I will admit, I had a lot of them, which means I've read a lot of them, but my affinity for them was always cyclical - I would read 2 books in a week for months, and then go months without reading any of them. Why? Because I would always get to the point where I would feel like stir fried shit before I even finished the epilogue.
Don't get me wrong - I love that people have love, fall in love, etc, etc. Heck, I'm even going to a wedding tomorrow, and I love those (I love seeing my friends share their bliss with the rest of us out there). But sometimes I get into a funk. It's not jealously, because I'm gonna be real frank - I wouldn't know what to do with it if I had it, and even proclaimed to a friend of mine recently that I'm not equipped to be any man's wife (to which she immediately accused me of copping out, and to which I didn't deny), although I welcome being pleasantly surprised.
I guess I write all of this now, so late in the day (after having these thoughts marinate in my head all day) because I'm hoping that admitting that I am a mess when it comes to 'love' will somehow help me release that very deficiency into the universe and thus allow me to feel open and free enough to welcome said affliction. Either that, or I'm nervous about attending another wedding dateless and knowing that all of the people who I already know are attending are attending with their significant others and I'm not looking forward to the "now we have to get you married" comments... or maybe it's just the sangria talking.
Who knows. But what I do know is that romance novels are hazardous to my health. Arriba, arriba!