We think we know ourselves.

We’re smart, self-aware, articulate people. (I’m assuming. But you know, you’ve got an internet connection and you’re reading my blog, you probably are smart, self-aware, and articulate. And you probably think you know yourself, too.) And then something happens that skews your whole world view sideways.

My kid made me watch the first episode of Hannibal when he was visiting at the beginning of April.

Oh, wait, no, that’s not what happened. My kid raved about Hannibal and said, every time, “You can’t watch it.”

I said, “Come off it, I want to watch, you love it, let me share your interests.” This is what moms of teenage boys say. Or think, anyway, even if they don’t say the words aloud.

He… well, if he was from another era, he would have thrown his hands up as he said, “Fine, on your head be it,” but he let me watch the first episode of Hannibal with him.

Twenty minutes in, I was hyperventilating. When the episode was over, he said, “What do you think?”

And I said, “It was awesome. What were you THINKING letting me watch that? Oh my God, that’s going to haunt me forever. Are you evil? Are you insane? How could you think that was okay? He TOUCHED him.”

I’m never going to watch another episode of Hannibal. One was enough. Also, it’s a brilliant television show and if you don’t have touch issues, you should probably watch it.

(If you haven’t seen the show, there’s a scene early on in the first episode in which the FBI guy–not, note the villain–violates the hero, Will’s, space repeatedly in minor ways. It made my skin crawl. I am pretty sure after the third time that FBI guy touched Will I actually got up and walked out of the room briefly because it was so unbearable.)

Unrelated, on an earlier occasion, C (hi, C!) told me that I was sensitive and I scoffed. I’m not sensitive, I’m tough. She pointed out that I will not watch television shows on which characters that I care about might get hurt and that that’s pretty much every television show ever. I… well, acquiesced. Yep. I don’t watch a lot of television. If there’s a character I like, I don’t want to watch him or her suffer. If there’s no character I like, why would I bother? If there’s no suffering–well, then there’s no story, so what’s the point? Resolution: read books, where things happen at the pace that I can tolerate.

All of this random rambling brings us to tonight. Today is the day of my first ever Bookbub ad. A Gift of Ghosts was, last I checked, at number 8 on the free Kindle bestseller list, the highest it has ever been. (Go, Bookbub, go.) I want nothing more than to keep clicking refresh on my Amazon page all night long, hoping I can catch it moving higher. But since that would be slightly insane of me and seriously boring, I decided to watch television instead.

I’m exactly the wimp that C and R think I am. As I skim through the shows, one after another, an entire universe of television, I realize that in this mood, there’s only one show that could possibly work: Love Boat. I want to see Love Boat. HEAs, all around.

My universe has kaleidoscoped and I’ve realized that I really am insane. Was Love Boat as bad as I remember it being? And/or as sweet? Because, honestly, that’s what I want to watch. Maybe I should hunt down some Harlequin romances to be the icing on the cake.

PS: Found an old Harlequin romance online, one that I read back when I was fourteen or fifteen. It took me approximately forty-five minutes to read and I feel sorta like I just ate a whole bag of M&Ms. Sugar overload.