So I'm reading this book, Pilots Choice. Re-reading it, really. I've read it a few times before.

I did warn Matt, before I started, that it would probably make me cry. It's a pair of sappy love stories thinly disguised as space opera. They're faintly melodramatic, as sappy love stories are wont to be, and even before I was pregnant, the dramatic climaxes would wring a tear or two from me. Thanks to the Miracle of Hormones, they'll probably have me sobbing this go-round. I thought it would be only fair to warn Matt.

He tried (half-heartedly) to convince me to read something else.

But I love books that make me cry. It's cathartic. I'd much rather cry because I'm caught up in a love story than because I'm frustrated at work or because I'm having self-image issues or something else equally pointless and pathetic.

Crying over a book doesn't really require any comforting, either. I'll weep for a little while and then be fine. I don't need to be consoled. (Though commiserating with others who've read the book is fun. After I'd read Game of Thrones - which does not end happily - the first time, Jeremy and I had great fun with our "Whaddafu???" conversations.)

Maybe it's a girl thing, to deliberately seek out something that will make us cry.

You know, it's taken me nearly an hour just to write that much. Brain no workee, today. I don't even remember where I was going with it when I originally started.

And now my stomach is growling for breakfast and I've got a meeting in an hour and I've got Actual Work to do at work today... So I'd better wrap.

Maybe I'll make sense tomorrow. You never know. Miracles happen.

--Liz