Love and Literature

Well that’s it. There is officially no hope for me now. I have no choice but to relegate myself to the fact that I shall share the same dwelling with my mother - mate less- for the rest of my natural life.

After the inevitable failure of my last relationship, I decided that the next male I snare would need to have more than a modicum of intelligence before he gets the privilege of being referred to as my larger half; I fancied myself somewhat of a sapiosexual. Then I discovered that all the intelligent men I would more likely prefer, read and analyze Dostoyevsky, Hemingway and Naipaul. Hey I like to discuss a good book too, but as opposed to having an indepth discourse on man’s struggle with both his internal and external environments, I’m more of a ‘hmmm…interesting…’ kind of girl.

And too besides, I prefer low-brow fiction anyway. Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass remain two of my all time favourites and I wouldn’t part with my copy of The Wind in the Willows for a pound of the purest gold. Make it ten pounds and we could talk - but I digress.

Every week, the Express Woman’s Magazine runs a twenty question interview with some local ‘celebrity’. Being the stalker that I am, I pay particular attention to the answers given by the studly males and I am always perturbed and disappointed when the response to “The best book you have ever read?” turns out to be The Bible. Huh? Hey it’s nice to know men have a sense of spirituality, but unless he’s open-minded (and personal experience proves to me that whoever considers a religious tome a good read, is anything but), conversations would soon get boring. I mean, there are only so many times one can hear about begetting after begetting after begetting before going insane.

Seriously though, I can’t remember the last time I met a man who infused the butterflies in my belly with such excitement as to remind me that they yet live. Ok, so actually I can, but it’s been a while. It would seem that finding one who is mature enough to not take himself too seriously, yet doesn’t make behaving like a jackass a routine thing, is about as easy as locating a sack of flour and a bag of rice these days.

I wonder if I’ll get laid at all this year.