In romance novels, how can a woman consider a romance with a man who's had a child with her sister. It's just, ew. I must have read dozens of these romances and the squick factor never really hit me until I was reading one yesterday. About midway through the book, though the woman actually had the same thought, but it didn't stop the romance from happening. Or really contribute much to self-loathing, I think I would be self-loathing.
My head isn't really in the game today. I saw something this morning that, well, doesn't necessary surprise me as much as it stuns me. I'm terrified that a day will dawn when I don't look at hoppie and think, "I love him." I don't even mind the moments when I look at him, "I'm going to kill him (but I love him)." because I know that underneath it all, I have a basic respect, and you know, a softening whenever I look at him. I really do look at him like that. With that stupid, amazed, awed, drooly look. And there are days when I know I could never lose that. (After all, I haven't yet), and then other days when I'm sure it's just a matter of time, so I should savor our love while it lasts.
I hate knowing I don't have all the answers.