I feel effervescent tonight. And overwhelmingly sensual. It’s the kind of feeling that makes you scrape your fingernails across your arm just to feel the nerve endings respond. It’s a ridiculously freeing and depressing feeling for a person, like myself, without a particular someone in their lives. And it’s not even a situation that could be alleviated by someone with a slightly less stringent code of sexual physics than me, because it’s the kind of night where going down to the corner pub and picking up a willingly male stranger simply wouldn’t do the trick. This kind of mood, as far as I can tell, is the type befitting a slow, rather meaningful session with someone you are deeply connected to.

I blame the damn book.

I took a test once--one of those stupid facebook/myspace type tests that tell you ridiculous so-called “facts” about yourself, like if you were reincarnated as an animal, you would be a monkey since you enjoy having opposable thumbs so much--that said my special talent was being a chameleon. It professed that I can fit easily into any crowd, blend in, find the mood and suit it perfectly. It also said that this made me very susceptible to other people’s moods and caused me to be an intolerable mimic. I don’t know about the first part, but I know I am the most annoying mimic. Never take me to see a British movie unless you want to hear me talking with an accent for a week. And always expect that whatever book I’m reading will show up in my mood…not to mention my writing. Meg Cabot makes me bubbly and witty, Jane Austin hopelessly romantic and I seem to write at my best after just having had a bout with J. K. Rowling. Three days ago I started “The Time Traveler’s Wife”. I’ve been meaning to pick it up for the better part of a year, but I was in the movie theatre a couple days ago and saw a preview and had a small panic attack that forced me to rush to the nearest book store and pick it up, lest I be forced to watch the movie without reading the original manuscript first.

Ever since I’ve opened it, I have been exceptionally horny. And am thinking of common, mundane parts of my life in choppy, non-sequential fashion. I want a Henry. Which is not really new, as the common thought running through my mind at any given time is “I want a Henry” or a Mr. Darcy, or a Luke or a Noah or any other number of fictional leading men, depending solely on my reading material of the day. Which leaves me with the question of whether or not romantic novels are good for women’s health at all. Because at the moment, all I can think of is running my newly manicured fingers down somebody’s back. Which makes it very hard to concentrate on mundane things like work, driving and social interaction.

Wait. Do monkeys have opposable thumbs?

Oh, yeah, they do. I just Googled it.