Is a graphic sex novel a woman's equivalent to penthouse or playboy? Both are tools of satisfaction that trees where felled for. One just comes in pink and the other in blue. I smirk a little at this comparison, and find it black and white true. That a woman's brain takes at least 100 more pages to get off than a man's - who is satisfied with (and all over) a few glossy photos.
Reading a book takes time, since there is no point in furiously flipping through pages. It's also a very private encounter, one in which no one outside of you and your book knows exactly what's going on. Unlike a magazine, it's not on full frontal display and is completely acceptable in public. Not only that, it's very involving. The full picture is more of a puzzle, that takes it tantalizingly slow to finally come together.
Women's brains are needy due partially to it's invested involvement with emotions. Females are so fucking greedy for it; wanting the whole cake and wanting to eat it draped in metaphorical (but often times not) silk and jewels. In addition to physically having, most women expect emotional commitment. Blinded are they by this sickness they will supersede anyone viewed as a third party. So I guess you could use this breathy explanation as reasons why you had to burn that bridge, smash that windshield, or on any other occasion acted like a lunatic.
Romance novels are what I call a cheap and easy read. The plot is fairly simple and all the stories have been homogenized. Although intellectually void, it has it's niche in that part of the my female brain that is equivalent to the clitoris. Herein lies the distinction of our mentality as well as our human commonalities. Next time you call him a dog, there's a good chance you're a bitch.
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