This Ain't No Ordinary Love: Imaginary Romances

Attention Ladies: Mr. Darcy is dead; romance is dead, and the urban slob is your romantic future. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! She awakes from the nightmare that has become her reality, the reality that has become her cursed routine. No, Mr. Darcy? she asks, dabbing her fevered forehead with a Kleenex, no Mr. Darcy! I beseech you cruel Sandman of my forlorn dreams, take me far away from this suburban squalor of: manicured lawns, white fences, blue Astro vans, osh kosh bgosh outfitted children, and housewives in Issac Mizrahi cardigans, take me far away...
Her pale lip quivers; her shoulders droop with the weight of 4,000 sumo wrestlers. Pleading eyes turn into watery pools of terror you can drown Ophelia in, she screams: Brett! Ashley! Oh, wait this is not the set of "Gone With The Wind". She gets up from her red couch, pushes aside an old copy of the Vogue, and an even older box of take out Kung Pao chicken, and begins to ponder:

Being a precocious child, one bedazzled by tawdry books like Lolita, it was only natural that my first love, my first infatuation was with a older man, a much older man. A man with a billowy beard, a cucumber shaped nose, and red overalls. No white, black, or Asian guys for me. It had to be blue. Ladies believe me when I say, once you go blue you don't go back. My very first love was Papa Smurf. He was a most affectionate and jolly fellow. We would hold hands and sing: "La, La, La-La,la, sing a happy song along with me,[whistle], la, la, la-la, smurf along with me." It was magnificent!




Papa Smurf


My second love was more enduring, more tempered, more serious. His name was Baron Joseph Vialetes de Mortarieu. Come again! I said: Baron Joseph Vialetes de Mortarieu. Ah, but of course! His sheer majestic countanence was heart stopping. One glimpse of his angelic primrose complexion and my heart was defeated, exiled into contemplative bliss. Wearing a black cocktail dress and pink heels, I collapsed into the docent's arms. He was just a portrait, but my God, what a portrait. What a man! Occasionally, I stop by the Norton Simon museum to rekindle the flames.









Baron Mortarieu




My third love. Well, he is my true love. Writer, war correspondent, restaurant owner, and smoldering daredevil: the one and only Sebastian Junger. I simply call him the "the one". His collection of essays titled "Fire" was scintillating; his book the "The Perfect Storm" was a Moby Dick inspired disaster; it was terrible( Sorry Sebastian. I adore you, but that book is hardly your best effort). And as a woman, I am bestowing him the highest honor by saying that he is the only man I would fuck after the first handshake. No introduction would be necessary: just one cab heading preferably in the direction of the Waldorf Astoria. No Motel 8, please! If I am going to be a whore by golly, I am going to be a classy whore. Sebastian darling, I would love to rip off your clothes, your flesh and even your essence. What can I say, he is literary catnip. Purr. Scratch. Scratch. Purr. And as for the bitches out there staring at his picture and drooling at him: HANDS OFF. I am going to beat your motherfucking asses, chew out your lungs, dig my heels into you eye sockets, and use your rib cages as washing boards for my Versace blouses.
Now, if any of you bitches out there know Sebastian, his doorman, his mother, his brother, his sister, his barber, his tax accountant, or share 15%, hell even 1% of this DNA, or have bumped into him on the street: I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU! Yes, you with the ape like expression on your face. Now get back to work bitches. I want numbers, names, and addresses. Me, a stalker? Are you kidding! So what if I am listening to Sting's "Every Breathe You Take" right now. That doesn't make me a stalker.










Sebastian Junger



By: Impeccable Beast