Never try to trick me with a kiss

I have been re-reading - The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. Need to get some new books to read. The Boy tells me that I need some happy literature in my life.

I find that annoying. 

I am not an intellectual sort. I like books for the flimsiest of reasons. So flimsy that, by the time I am done reading with it, I forget why I like it. As a reader, I am what I have never been in real life: decidedly non-flamboyant. I am a grounded, straight laced reader. I disagree with the Boy’s assertion that I am an unhappy reader. 

Why must one always be overwhelmed and swept away? It is insulting. 

The Boy has this game that he plays with me routinely. It goes as follows:

Step 1: Insult me

Step 2: Profusely apologize

Step 3: Pull my ears, rub my temple, play with my fingers, find some excuse to pet and neck et al 

Where did he learn that? Do the men I meet go to some place called – Special School for Morons?