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 (This is purely fiction and please don't report this to my parents ;p) .. My fantasies were coated by perfect men from books who spoke perfect words to flow the hem of my skirt and the strings of my heart. These men knew every poem ever written and every fairytale ever told. These men loved children and respected women. These men were crafted from a woman's pencil. I longed for these men. Painful to realize a real man is made of dirt and dust. They are made up of rhythmless tunes and mismatched words. They are clever yet need help to understand their feelings. They make me grip my hair and groan in distress. I could never find a prince of books. Then I got a man. Perfect at see but flawed at saw. These hip of imperfections could not match my dreams. Mismatch at its finest. 1 don't want to see but I observe and am curious. Who is this? Who is he who dreams of me? One of his kind, I dare say. The open arms invite me and hug me so tight, it's difficult to breathe. Actions...

I picked my first Nancy Drew novel in Grade 5 and instantly was obsessed with this little girl going around finding clues and unfolding secrets I could only dream of. I tried to do the same, however, staying in a hostel I could barely afford a lawyer father who would give me cases. Regardless, our assumptions were limited to Jujuman, the hostel ghost, and we used to snoop around in his abandoned car in front of the music room. We would sit there after dance and music classes and look at the old car. Although no one had the courage to go inside, we were very curious and so started investigating the mud around the area. This novel made me realize my hunger for mysteries and quests. It also help form a deep connection with my best friends where we would establish an informal book club. It also developed my habit of reading where gradually I shifted from Nancy to Nora Roberts to Dan Brown to Sidney Sheldon and Jeffery Archer books. One major thing I learned is: She starts from a clue and s...