That’s right; I confess. I have crappy taste.
I indulge frequently. Daily. Hourly, if I have a chance.
And speaking of indulgence, I over-indulge my children.
My kids have every single game system. Well, they don’t have a Playstation 3 — but only because we haven’t gotten around to gifting them with that one for Christmas. But they do have a Playstation 2. And an X-Box 360. And a Wii.
My justification is how can I take things away if they don’t have anything? Elder son will even do his math homework, given the threat of turning off the on-line access to the Xbox 360.
They each have their own computers, too. Because if they didn’t, they’d be using mine all the time. Meaning I wouldn’t have unfettered opportunity to read crap online.
Television? Yup. I watch it. Well, not so much now that the writer’s strike put so many shows on hiatus. I’m jonesing without my House, Bones, and Ugly Betty fixes. And Heroes; just got hooked onto that last Fall, and boom! Goddamned writer’s strike.
And what’s this shit about no 24 this year, huh? Jeez, I’m being deprived me of some high-caliber crap there.
I read a lot too. Lots and lots of crap. Harry Potter: done the whole series, more than once. Carol O’Connell’s Mallory series: anxiously await the publication of each new book (and why the hell doesn’t she have one in the tubes, huh?). At least Elizabeth George has a new one coming out in May.
Yes, I look this stuff on the interwebs. And... pre order it.
But here is my biggest, darkest, crappiest crap secret.
I read a romance novelist.
Yes, I know you’ve now lost all respect for me. But I have a defense. She writes this particular series under a pseudonym, to separate it out from her pure romance novelist crap.
I’m totally, absolutely addicted to the J.D. Robb (Nora Roberts) slightly futuristic In Death... series.
So, if you are flattered because I read and comment in your diaries, you might want to consider the source.
Because I’m a crap addict.