I have a problem. Ever since my mum bought me  a Kindle for Christmas, I’ve started reading romance novels. And not the regular Mills-and-Boons-and-Alejandro variety. I’m reading teenage paranormal love stories. Werewolves, demons, psychics, ghosts … I draw the line at Twilight though, so no sparkly vampires have crossed my path thus far. Besides, the werewolves are so much hotter.

There are over 50,oo0 free books available on Kindle, and a surprising number of them are romance books featuring drool-inducing monsters. For example, those three up there *pointing* are a mind-reader, a werewolf, and the devil’s son. All three have beautiful eyes, movie-star hair, and killer pecs and abs.

I’ve always been a romantic. When I was in primary school, my pals were reading Sweet Dreams and Sweet Valley High. I didn’t really touch those. It wasn’t because they were childish or anything. It was because the lines of girls waiting to read them were way too long, so I cut them by finding stuff nobody wanted to borrow.

As my friends were swooning over Jessica and Todd, I was reading Sidney Sheldon and wondering what exactly Constantin was doing in that bath-tub full of jello. So while my friends were giggling over kisses in the locker, I was looking into much more detailed stuff. Suffice it to say that by Form 1, I’d done enough literary research that my room-mates thought me far more experienced than I was. *cheeky grin*

I suppose because I skipped the corny words and pick-up lines, I never really found the Alejandro model exciting. Not until now. Reading about all these super-sweet boys with six-packs and movie lines, I’m starting to get a little worried for myself. Why? Well, it’s transforming the image of my dream guy, and I fear I may be falling for some men that don’t exist.

In the movies, girls always fall for that strong, silent type. He’s the guy that’s dark and scary and never really talks. You want to be the one he lets into his creepy secret lair, to be his kryptonite, to wield a special power by being the only one that gets him out of his shell, the one person that makes him sigh and laugh and smile. Basic vixen fantasy I guess, or it could be the excitement of the challenge.

In the movies, the stand-offish gorgeous jerk always ends up having a teddy bear centre. In real life, not so much. Maybe that’s why that guy has never done it for me. I mean don’t get me wrong, I love eye candy as much as the next girl. But being with a super perfect body would just make me self conscious.

I know a guy like that, and I know what it entails. 2 hour workouts every day, usually at a time when I’d rather be lounging in bed enjoying some morning glory. Strict dietary regimes that involve health shakes and almond milk and all manner of concoctions that I have to learn to cook. And regular passing comments on the state of my own body. *shudder* Why put myself through that when I can simply watch and drool?

Outside of Jeremiah, there are two men in my life that get my insides in a  muddle. They’re both six foot three and gorgeous. One is vanilla, the other is black coffee – ebony and ivory in every sense of the word. One is Mr Gym Buff. All he does is look at me and I just turn to jelly. The other is My Gentleman, the sweetest, kindest, most amazing human being I’ve ever met. Six feet of pure, cuddly awesomeness.

One of them spends hours working out, and has appetites that just cannot be sated by one woman. He loves sports, speed, and whisky. The other one is military, loves video-games, can take apart a gun in milliseconds, and will likely kill a bastard with a toothpick if said bastard tried to hurt me.

If I could mix the DNA of these two delectable yummies and somehow turn them into one, I’d have a total dream come true. Unfortunately, they both see me as non-female, and despite years and years of trying, I’m pretty much stuck in the friend zone. It doesn’t stop me from measuring every guy I meet against them, and watching the potentials fall way short.

I suppose what I really want is a hot, impassioned gentleman. Someone who can be sweet, kind, and tender, but can still rub me up against the wall when necessary. Someone who’s soft enough to hold me when I cry, but can get down and dirty about ringing all my bells. Someone who can share his plans and dreams for the future, and be subtle when he stares at passing ass…ets.

Someone solid enough to be a role model for my daughter, to teach her how to ride a bike, and scare whichever idiot that she’s dating. He’s secure enough to let me see his fears and sit with me while we watch cartoons, man enough to let me be me, and predictable enough that I always know exactly what to expect from him. I know without a doubt that I can count on him. Always. Now … all I need is a recipe, a script, and a really funky lab so I can cook this hot man up.

♫ November ♫ The Mess ♫

I hate sanguines. Seriously, I do. There’s always so fucking bubbly and excitable. What’s there to be so happy about? And what makes you think your spirit is contagious? Now me, on the other hand, I am contagious. Especially when I’m in a mood like today. And what mood is that? Well, bat-shit crazy for no reason at all. At least, no reason that I can easily identify. And man does this mood suck. If I had a coven and a chainsaw … well, let’s just say it’s good that I don’t have either. And no, it’s not PMS.

I’ve been in this mood for two days now. And because I’m contagious, I prefer to hide out in a cubby hole and wait until it passes, which it will. But nooooo. I have to do normal things. Like talk to people, and cross roads, and go to work. When I’m in a mood like this, I half hope the world can tell, that they can see my cloud from miles away and back the fuck off.

But they can’t. So I eat chocolate. And I fume. And I blog. And I tweet. And I try to get through the day without killing anybody. Unfortunately, this day is not particularly kind. My mood has turned my mind blank. Absolutely blank. And the briefs are piling up. So in moments between staring at an image and wishing for the words to write themselves, I kick and I scream and I curse, but always on the inside.

And my workmates, well, they have to bear the brunt. They only see my angry little tweets, because they cannot hear the words inside my head, or the many painful ways I’m trying to hurt them. And it all goes great. Until it catches. Then suddenly my timeline is alive with nasty subtweets, and I want to just walk over to their desks and yell fuck you!

But I can’t, because we’re feeding off each other, and right now, the workspace is about to explode. The anger levels are frighteningly high and I’m wondering what’s the worst that could happen if I threw this dumb machine off the balcony and just went home. I can do that, right? Creatives do shit like that all the time. But I’d probably get fired. Or sued. Or worse. Wait. What’s worse than being fired or sued?

I suppose I could collapse into a zen space. It’s what the smart, mature person would do. But I don’t feel like being very smart or mature. I feel irrational and angry. I would like to build a gang of mutant effigies, and stick red hot pins inside their navels. Then blindfold them and shoot them full of blanks until they’re dead. In the meantime, chocolate and angry rock will have to do.

♫ Don’t stay ♫ Linkin park ♫