I used to think that there were three kinds of literature that live in the Mill End breakroom. Those with the word "country" in the title (ahem, Country Home, Country Living, and Country Cottage come immediately to mind), The National Enquirer, and miscelanious others that pre-date 1995. I used to think that the Mill End breakroom was where bad magazines went to die, but not without being read from cover to cover by sorry souls like me-- who, given the opportunity, really would like to learn how to make a dust ruffle from your cat's hairballs and definitely would want to see how the stars look without their makeup rather than converse with whichever Crazy Old Woman is also occupying their space.
I was wrong.
Today I discovered the breakroom's enormous stash of Harlequin Romances. I have never seen so much girl porn in my life. They all sit, dilapidated and clearly read many times, on the back table where the older women put their coats and thermoses. I laughed out loud when I finally noticed them. So that's what everyone's been reading instead of this god-awful ten year old National Geographic. The Bride and the Cowboy.
I'm not sure if I'm deeply pleased by this or if I've just lost my will to live.
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