And Just In Case You Weren't Intimately Acquainted With My Depravity: Armitage

Yeah. So, mom, don't look. Or anyone else who is disturbed by my ebullience of hormones and neurological associations.

Richard Armitage. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Over. How the hell did this happen? The Gods Looked Down and Laughed. This would be a better world for the children if the parents had to eat the spinach.

Just to show that I can have some objectivity, here's some pros/cons:

Cons:

• Much too tall. Really, be sensible and lose five inches in stature.
• Has better hair than me.
• North English accent sounds vaguely Scottish at times (note: this does straddle the line between pro and con, as it is a pro for me but feel the comparison would irritate him--this has been my experience with Brits to date)
• Again with the tall thing
• This man is prettier than me.
• Umm...he is so amazing and wonderful that I would plagued by insecurities constantly?
• Really being picky here, but can he tan? I guess I could accept a true cracker, but still. . . 

Pros:

• This man is prettier than me.
• Such good hair.
• Almost perfect nose. Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
• Seems to be able to take the piss.
• Beautiful, amazing, expressive face (all dependent on the fact that said face would look beautiful and amazing and earnest when proclaiming love for me oneself)
• Likes poetry
• Narrates children's books
• Can ride a horse
• Allegedly sings
• Based on above, might go tupping and singing, fits in with my crowd
• I've mentioned his nose, right?
• The look he gives Dawn French leaning in her doorway for a last glimpse (Vicar of Dibley). I know, I know, its ACTING. But babbies, let me be true with you: at this point in my life, I'd settle for some decent acting if nothing else. Just make me feel special for a quarter hour hurney. My standards, they are rock bottom.

To better illustrate my previous rantings.

Jeans. Thud.

Duh. Okay, okay, okay. So I have a *type*--look on that nose and be not moved, and I must conclude we are from different species.

"You owe me the sum of one kiss, with tongues." Accounting has never been so sexy.

I like this. It's his Basil Rathbone look. Sort of a caricature. Devilishly handsome.

That smile is evil. Pure evil. Pure delicious, awesome, come hither evil. Or just how he looks everyday. I've been accused of both. I know the pain.

Smolder, smolder. Guyliner. Smirk. Leather. Sideburns. Saddle up.

 And in the end, what is it really all about? Adorkable. Look at that. What a goob. *lurve*

I guess in the end it's all a wash, iddn't it? We are presented with brief honest glimpses of people doing what they love and being who they are, interspersed with carefully controlled media images. I can hardly blame them for any of it. I only have to imagine the shitstorm that would occur if somebody started broadcasting my ass fueled daily remarks (remember kids, there's a reason I don't twat the tweets).

And of course, though I know my tastes aren't necessarily "mainstream," they are obviously not so unique as to prevent these men from becoming stars. I am not so singular in my attraction. The miracle would be if we as a culture or the media machine as an enitiy were ever to find beauty in the faces and figures of common folk like us. I see my boys and think they are nothing short of art. I don't care what others think. But then again, if others didn't think the same, I'd scarcely have a chance to see these artful players in the first place, would I? No, it's no good to congratulate myself on my unique taste. A rose is a rose is a rose, and by any other name would smell as sweet.

But it is sometimes hard, isn't it. To see all these roses and the closest you can hope is for thorns? But when I stood in the concert hall listening to SAS (so nice i did it thrice), or in front of the Van Gogh and the Bosch, i never hoped for equal beauty and grace. I simply reveled that such beauty and grace existed at all.