Come Join Me Here on Elba.

I read a lot, at least a book a day unless school and work conspire to deprive me of sleep. But I don't read typical book worm books, I read historical romances. Yes, the ones with half naked couples embracing on the cover. My mother calls them sex-books and won't allow them in her house. It's true to a certain extent, they do include sex scenes but that's not why I read them. I read them for the sensuality, and the depth of the feeling between the man and the woman. I've never been in love myself you see, so I vicariously experience the feeling through literature. My favorite books are the ones which don't have as much sex, but more feeling, holding, talking. I suppose it's my dream for a relationship, the perfect man. Of course, I don't believe in perfection; I'm not perfect and I can't expect a potential mate to be so, but there are qualities that I consider necessary.
People are constantly surprised that I'm a romantic. I guess I really don't seem the type, but most times it's laugh or cry so I laugh. Sometimes I come across as callous and determined to succeed at the cost of others, but truly I would give it all up for a man who loves me and a comfortable home. Freshman year, I was driving back from a late class with a guy who lived in my dorm and I told him that my happiest dream is to be a housewife. To cook and clean and raise children. He was shocked; even back then I had this aura of success around me, one which blinded people to my real needs and desires. It's this facade of strength and self assurance that I blame for my being alone after all this time. Good night, sweet blogverse; I can promise each and every one of you that I will be dreaming of the perfect man.