Am I happy? I am. I love my life. If I don't love something about it, I change it. Seems easy enough, but what is this happily ever after idea, and who is the idiot that came up with this becoming a theme to every stinking book out there now?
I've written posts about unconditional love and my cynicism, but I really want to take the opportunity to touch more on the happy ending. The princess and the prince get married. Okay, then what? Don't you think there are days that the prince farts and chews with his mouth open and the princess questions every life decision she has made? And how many princesses are there? I'm not one. I don't know any. What about us regular folk?
I miss the days when books were written and the unbelievably romantic themes were overshadowed with grief, heart-broken characters and misery. Edith Wharton is my favorite author, and she is a master of this. Ethan Frome, for example - he and his mistress didn't wind up too happy ever after, huh? Neither did Newland Archer or Lily Barton. I won't spoil it for you guys if you choose to read Ethan Frome, The House of Mirth or The Age of Innocence, but you totally should. Just saying.
I like reading stories that don't make me feel like a total failure for not being born a princess, finding a handsome prince and living each day blissfully happy. Give me death, maiming and agony every time, of course, with the hope of some romance along the way.