Source: rantingsonthebay.blogspot.com

I used to be very practical about the whole mating thing. I knew there was potentially a romantic apocalypse in my future, so I approached it all from an unemotional standpoint. But my mom would tell me that love really existed—she swore that it did, even until the day she died. Then I started reading fantasy romance novels, and before I knew it, I was starting to have my own foolish pipe dreams.

This “one” people tell me of, the soul mate everyone dreams of, would have to be another Pearl in my world. No Coal in their right mind is going to settle for a lowly Pearl, let alone be attracted to our stark white skin and bad genes. Even in young adult books, you don’t really read about people from polar opposite classes having an easy time of it—and those books are so fantastical. When they do have a successful relationship, it gives it a whole fairy tale vibe, the whole happily-ever-after ending of fantasy romance novels. But life is never like that.

There was one time when I thought I may have met someone who would be my perfect mate—or like they said back in the day, “the one.” He was from the ruling class and never saw me without Midnight Luster. He told me I was beautiful, but I am not sure if he really meant it. I know how guys can be, especially when they’re from a higher class (which is everyone but me!). But I swear I felt a spark—until the rest of the story turned out to be just like the storyline of a series of post apocalyptic books.

I gave in and let myself surrender into this fantasy. I felt like the protagonist in one of these oh-so-popular young adult books, an empowered woman who is attractive and in charge of her own life and decisions. I stopped listening to that little voice in my head, the one that told me to be cautious and to remember my place in the world. I was on the verge of a romantic apocalypse and anyone could take advantage of my state of mind.

Then it happened. I found that none of it was real. This Coal who I thought was so special was really trying to use me for information about my father’s experiments. He was so convincing, he would have been an award-winning actor back in the old world. I should have known.

For now, I’m tossing all of my fantasy romance novels and replacing them with post apocalyptic books. The more depressing and hopeless, the better. I can relate to their stories and then see that little glimmer of hope at the end and wonder if I have the ability to end up like the protagonists in these books do—maybe not happily ever after, but happy enough. And alive.