If there’s one thing you should know about me — other than what you already know, i.e., my wanderlust, my dream of becoming a published author, and my thirst for good coffee, of course — it’s that I am a huge bookworm. HUGE. I’m talking hours spent glued to my Kindle, forsaking sleep to finish that nth novel, lone wolf living in the land of make-believe kind of huge (okay, maybe not so much the last one).  There’s a catch, though. I prefer to read stories with happy endings. I don’t mean happy endings wherein people part ways on a hopeful note. Nope. I mean happy endings a la Disney, wherein the people who should be together do end up together and things are tied up in a neat little bow by the time I hit the last page. I want an escape from life’s messed-up crap, not another reason to cry buckets (because, yes, I am a total crybaby). Which is why I have yet to read John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars despite all the great things I’ve heard …