A little confession

I am supposed to busy writing my research representation and hell it's only twenty minutes andi have more than enough material to fill that space. So what if it is an amorphous rushed mass of information, okay opinion disguised as information, and a few pretty diagrams and a photo of a superhero doll all thrown onto a powerpoint show. It's only twenty minutes of my life.  Instead I have been dreaming of being back in the islands laying on that incredibly uncomfortable bed reading a Harlequin romance. Yes I read a Harlequin romance, well two actually they were published together. I had never done such a thing before. It was fascinating. One was a gothic horror romance updated to contemporary Missouri with the glaring heathcliff type who hides a tragic secret and the love of a good and determined woman to save him. The other was apparently inspired by the author witnessing a civil war re-enactment and imagining what a real conferred would make of this war surrounded by coke stall and concession stands.
 
And what rollicking good reads they were too. Prose as crappy as this, but the most interesting and determined insistence on particular gender traits. He - tight buns, hard chest, emotion laden eyes on an expressionless face. If only he would smile and reveal that masculine beauty behind the mask... She long flowing hair, lacy bras and sweatpants ( what the... ) and astonishing blue/green/violet/whatever coloured as long as they are astonishable.
 
 Now I myself like a manly man, but god a bit of quirk, a bit of mocking irony, a bit less steely determination and clenched jaws thanks lady writers of romance.  yes true love wins in the end, and the female protagonist is the agent of the deliverance of the male hel i.e. mistaken belief he killed a child while in a catatonic fugue, or the confusion of accidental time travel and the need to rally the troops. But god upholding ht egender order like this, shame on you