HAPPILY NEVER AFTER
Today’s contributor watched too much Reading Rainbow as a child
I like boys who like books. Four books a month at minimum — anything less is a deal breaker. Exceptions for deaths in the family and religious holidays are considered on a case-by-case basis. I’m of the firm belief that we fall in love with books because we see ourselves in them. I’ve tested this theory.
I’ll start a date chatting about my favorite books, and then casually ask the guy what he’s reading. A second or third date is confirmed after a lit-swap—If, and only if, I like the main characters. All of my best relationships started this way, until I met a guy who tested my patented theory on me before I had the chance.
After we started dating, I realized I really liked him. But then he dumped me. In the months that followed, I read every book he had mentioned, trying to become more like the characters.
Eventally I realized it wasn’t going to work. It was also a complete waste of time — he had already switched genres and convinced himself that he was a cowboy. For the record, I hate Westerns.
Editor’s Note: We discovered there’s an entire support group, er, dating website for book lovers. It’s called alikewise.com.
