I drown myself in media to keep my mind off my application letters. I watch a TV show, read a book, listen to podcasts and music within a day. And repeat the day after, so far I only think about the applications once a day too.

My bookshelf collapsed on its own weight, I haven't fixed it. All of my books are piled on the floor, unorganized - not that it was in the first place. I like it, it gives my room character. Arranging them in an unarranged, messy but not too messy pile - I counted some that are sealed, and some not ten pages in. I have a shopping problem, discounts get me going and I lose count. The unopened books were behind plastic because they were books that were in the middle of a series. 50% up to 90% discounts blinded me so much that I failed to read the book descriptions. The unfinished books were just books that were disinteresting. Books that were so pretty that I gave them a chance. That's why you should not judge a book by its cover. But what about the title? Words that enchant you, is that still judging by the cover? I will read them soon.

Each day that passes, I become more romantic. Romantic in the sense of watching a beautiful love crumble. Romantic in the sense of reading about a short-lived (literally) love because they both die (at the end). Romantic in the sense of bright pink, bright orange, bright yellow, and deep blue, deep purple, deep red.

As a child the wondrous fantasy worlds fueled me. I and Cassey were avid fans of Hunger Games (even now). We would pretend-murder each other, sometimes we call our classmates to have a killing spree. That tied into Divergent, Percy Jackson, and Harry Potter. The unconventional world was the reality we wanted.

I don't know how it happened but my desire for love blossomed. I barely liked someone before, most of my crushes were products of peer pressure. When did the crushing, heart-wrenching, take it all out of you love become a desire. 

Are romance books reality or fantasy? Where is the line?