Guilty Pleasures.
Irredeemably bad sci-fi programs a la SG-1, Andromeda, and Mutant X. Cotton candy for the mind, I know, but a lavish fold-out cot of guilty pleasure on a Saturday afternoon nonetheless.
Circa 1950 romance-adventure novels for ladies. No heaving breasts, no almond-scented hair, just a fun romp through Rome on the trail of a mysterious, handsome stranger. What can I say? I'm an innocent when it comes to romance.
Circa 1950 spy novels. No detailed descriptions of submarines or ray guns. Heaving breasts, well, okay. Here they seem more at home. But lots of car chases and disguises and clever devices.
A cold beer on a sunny deck overlooking St. Charles Avenue before noon.
Expensive perfume with a tempting name like "Evening in Paris" or "Mysterious Woman."
Breaking up.
Sleeping late.
Pretending to be sick so that other people bring food to you while you watch irredeemably bad sci-fi programs.
Heartache.
Circa 1950 romance-adventure novels for ladies. No heaving breasts, no almond-scented hair, just a fun romp through Rome on the trail of a mysterious, handsome stranger. What can I say? I'm an innocent when it comes to romance.
Circa 1950 spy novels. No detailed descriptions of submarines or ray guns. Heaving breasts, well, okay. Here they seem more at home. But lots of car chases and disguises and clever devices.
A cold beer on a sunny deck overlooking St. Charles Avenue before noon.
Expensive perfume with a tempting name like "Evening in Paris" or "Mysterious Woman."
Breaking up.
Sleeping late.
Pretending to be sick so that other people bring food to you while you watch irredeemably bad sci-fi programs.
Heartache.
posted by Autumn at 8:57 AM
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