Okay, you know what? I'm going to admit it.
I have a thing for vampire romance fiction.
I swooned over Brad Pitt as Louis and read the entire Anne Rice library in the 90's, before she wigged out and started writing about Jesus. I found Charlaine Harris on our buddy Larry's bookshelf waiting for his wedding to start and blazed through the whole Sookie Stackhouse series. And, yeah, I'm punctually perched on my parents' couch every week to watch the latest On Demand installment of True Blood as I scarf down an apple and a cheese stick.
Today I stopped at Borders, bought Twilight, and read the whole danged thing over 4 glorious, golden hours at The Coffee Park while someone in a much jollier mood entertained my child. I'm pretty sure I had some hot cocoa and a biscuit about 100 pages in, but I don't really remember. I found splotches of beverage on my shirt (big surprise) and crumbs in the elastic waistband of my maternity jeans, so I'm pretty sure there was food involved. I'll have to check my Visa bill to know for sure. 498 pages, i'm yet again enthralled by some pasty dude and his laiason dangereuse with a slightly clueless chick.
And i'm not embarrassed. So let's just lay it all on the table. I read Diana Gabaldon's Scottish-time-travel-romance-fiction. And I read Star Wars books. Lots of them.
And, yes, I read vampire romance fiction. Rabidly.
But those are the only embarrassing secrets i'm going to reveal today. So don't ask me about my secret mole, what happened at Duke in 1990, or what my parents would have named me, had I been a boy. Cuz I ain't tellin'.