My wife is always trying to get me to explain how I decide what book to read next, since it seems completely random to her. I am constantly explaining that I follow the strict rules of the International Society for Determining What Book to Read Next each time. Each book is chosen via a complex and convoluted--but ultimately logical--set of criteria.
She DARES to doubt the very existence of the ISDWBRN and dared even further to claim that I "just made up the rules as I went along" and "read whatever randomly chosen book I want to." Such folly on her part!
Determined to put a stop to this, I asked her "Are you saying that you want to invoke the little used Nagging Wife clause within the rules of the International Society for Determining What Book to Read Next and thus get to choose the book I read yourself?"
I said this with complete confidence that my beautiful and merciful wife would simply indignantly deny that she ever nags (which she doesn't) and let the matter drop.
I was wrong. She invoked the clause and now....
I HAD TO READ THE ROMANCE NOVEL PICTURED ABOVE!!!!!! THE HORRORS!!!!
So if my sanity breaks down-- if my blog posts devolve into statements such as "THE COOTIES! THE COOTIES! I CAN'T GET THEM OFF ME!" --if my testosterone level drops and I begin sobbing uncontrollably---well, you'll all know why. It's not my fault.
No, I'm not reviewing the book on this blog! Well, other than to say that if the two main characters spend several pages calling out each other's name across the desolate prairie just one more time, I am going to go nuts for sure. Maybe the Indians will get them--I can always hope for that.
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