Being the semi-hopeless romantic that I am, I’ve impulsively decided that I, without exception, must own Nights in Rodanthe, based on the best-selling novel by Nicholas Sparks.  

I’m convinced that Slick is reading this with rigorous amounts of grumbling undertone… albeit I just can’t help believing in second chances.  Besides, a girl needs some romance remedies in her life (they can’t all be about stilettos), and it’s not as if I’m lolling around in a state of love-stupor while reading mushy novels with Fabio smeared across the cover of each (no offense), while plucking tissues from an oversized box as my face clouds behind a pillow of white! 

I do come from a little land called reality, but in the end, it’s just one of those things…