jaeleslie

The last few days I've been feeling kind of low, so I'm reading more of those dreadful Laurell Hamilton books about Anita Blake Vampire Hunter, all out of order, while I wait for the next one in her appalling fairy-court series to come out. They are really a hoot (particularly the fashion challenges presented by where to pack your arsenal of various firearms and knife sheaths, and the eternal impossibility of fighting off the hordes of undead when you're wearing high heels). But while I was driving out to Whitewater and back today (look, horsies!) I had a chance to contemplate what it is I find so interesting in these books, despite the embarrassingly awful mix of romance and the old ultraviolence. I suppose I easily identify with a woman who can't decide between a lovely man who is actually a werewolf, and another lovely man (with a much girlier fashion sense) who is a master vampire. I mean as men go, these are pretty damn choice. (In the fairy-court novels, the elven princes that the protagonist can't decide between all have hair down to their ankles.) And why should she have to choose anyway? She has kept going with this polyamory that dare not speak it name for a dozen books, and worried about it occasionally, but not let it cramp her style much. And you know, life can be pretty complicated, raising zombies nine to five, who has the time?

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I'm not getting this tattoed on my neck. I figure it's subject to change once I get a little horse into the cocktail, like the ricksha girls in Light.