…the creators of chick-flicks. You have ruined my life. Don’t get me wrong I enjoy your movies immensely, I watch them all the time and thus have a horrible romantic life.
I waste so much time looking for guys with sparkly skin or secret royal lineages in the hope that I can be the one who makes a difference in their lives, you know be “the only thing that’s real” or at least get them to go outside and strip. Shiny things make me happy.
I am probably ignoring dozens of perfectly eligible men because I’m on the lookout for boys with posh British accents who are willing to partake in sad attempts of fighting for my honour. Never mind that these same guys will cheat on me with skinny-ass tanned women or that they prefer a little something-something from ladies of the night, Hugh Grant I’m talking to you, I’m hooked.
I dance my ass off at clubs because I have come to believe many hot guys are not only sensitive souls but can also bust a move and one day we’ll end up doing choreography in a street together.
I want to wait in the rain because I’ve learnt not only will I look radiant and my mascara won’t run but that guy, the one that got away will find me and we’ll have a moment and kiss and totally ignore the fact my shirt is see-through.
You have convinced me that a kiss is a gazillion times better when it’s accompanied by a killer soundtrack. Also running into each other’s arms makes for great dramatic moments. On a side-note, have you ever tried that? It’s hard to master and if you’re out of sync, teeth bash, foreheads bump and someone lands up on the floor.
I also fear that when I do find love without an elaborate gesture I may not believe it. If there is no guy with cue cards telling me I’m perfect or a John Cusack look-a-like holding up a classic 80s song on a boombox, how will I know if it’s real. If a guy is not willing to slay an evil sea witch or go to prison ‘cause some little bitch of a sister falsely accused him of something then I’m gonna eject his ass.
Ex-Oh! Ex-Oh!
Image from here.
