(I love Colin Firth. Don’t, “Yeah, me too,” me, because I love, love him. I love him enough that I forgive him, his long marriage to someone whose name is similar to mine, and who’s general appearance mirrors mine, from a great distance, if you squint hard.
And once that person, who is not me, proved herself unworthy, I loved him enough to wait, ten long days after receiving a flood of messages, three, from people telling me my imaginary boyfriend, my screensaver, my Mr. Darcy, is no longer shackled to someone who is not me.
And now, I love him so much that I’m willing to allow him still more time to grieve the end of that phase of his life because I perfectly understand whatever it is he thinks he’s feeling. *The rest of this post is private.)
a pic I photoshopped an oil painting I commissioned years ago at the beginning of our long imaginary relationship. 👇🏼
When you feel better, please know I’m here, hovering in cyberspace, searching for a place to land, wearing a Regency-era dress. Please call.