Learn how to be your own heroine, so you too can find your own hero.” Right, because why would you want to spend time learning how to be your own heroine if not for the sole purpose of ensnaring a hero?

For men like Billy and Blaise (hahaha), it comes down to how fervently they thrust their crotches at the audience. AT THE AUDIENCE. AT! THE! AUDIENCE! For men like Colt and Tristan, it’s your basic hot guy dancing. No rhythm, but looka this bicep and looka this six-pack and whaddaya think of this, though . . . aaaand thrust. Jake and Lantz actually look like they’re having a good time, dancing and playing to the audience. I do love a man who can dance. And then there’s Josh, who just looks kind of embarrassed, fumbling with his clothes and oh, did taking off my shirt reveal an incredible body? Sigh . . . This ole thing? And that’s why he’s the favorite. He’s Lewis Carroll’s snark. He’s the elusive unicorn. He’s the guy who’s model-hot but doesn’t know it. Although he did sign up for the pageant in the first place. So . . .

I plucked the shower gel I used this morning from the grocery store shelf for no discernible reason. Why that shower gel? Was it because it had shea butter in it—do I even know what shea butter is?—or was it because it promised to make me feel younger, more refreshed, or softer to the touch? Was it because the packaging was simple and clean or was it because I was rushing through the store and just needed some G.D. shower gel?

Yes, romance novels are extreme. The situations are turned up to eleven and everyone is beautiful without dieting or exercise and the sex is always amazing, but when I strip all that away what I get is that all of this”—Sasha motions to everything around us, and I’m assuming she means the world and our existence and not this particular Mexican restaurant—“that all of this is nothing without love.

The panning shot of the soldiers as they ready themselves for the onslaught and now I finally see that I’m the one with the scar running down half her face and that these eyes . . . ohhhh, these eyes have seen some horrors. And that that’s a good thing. Age. Wisdom. Being forty. I like it here.

. . . mixing defensiveness with anger - a wonderful mix, by the way.