Confession is good for the soul.

I have a confession to make. I read romance novels. Not exclusively, but I do read them. They are my guilty pleasure, and I feel about them the way I imagine a bulemic feels about chocolate truffles. I have one rule for the romances that I borrow from the library to satisfy my cravings: they must NOT have the "heaving bosom/torn bodice/Fabio-esque" cover.
Other than that one rule, nothing is off limits.

These are my "brain candy." The books for which I don't engage my mind. I have a pattern in which I read a proper novel, biography, history, etc. then as a kind of palette cleanser, I tackle the trash.