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.

It’s not about religion.

Let’s just get that straight out of the way right now, since it’s the first question asked anyways. It certainly was the first question asked when I woke up in my first year dorm room at 18 to find our male next-door neighbor crawling into my bed. His response when I answered no to this question?

“You should have said yes. Then I might have left.”

But it’s not. About religion, I mean. Because in every sense of the word I am very liberal. Ha, okay maybe not in EVERY sense of the word, or otherwise this blog would probably not exist. At least, not as it is right now.

So if it’s not about religion, what is it about? Hell, if I know. I didn’t exactly wake up one day and decide to dabble in celibacy. Who would willingly DO such a thing? Crap, I’m showing my religious liberalism again, aren’t I? Please, if you are a nun, do not take offense to this blog. And I have to concede that I have had every possible chance to change my particular situation. And I am not saying this, as so many do, to defend their virginity and likeability by saying that I am so attractive and it is all my choice and I could have any guy I want. Because, hello? I am a straight female. Of COURSE I could have any guy I want for a one-night stand. Arguably there is no straight female alive who COULDN’T get any guy they wanted for a one-night stand. This much goes without saying. So therefore I feel no real desire when people find out about my, ahem, situation, to justify myself by assuring them that this is by my choice. Let’s not insult their intelligence. Of COURSE it’s by my choice.

And while we’re heading down this road of what other people do and think, let me assure you that it is very against who I am to preach or persuade you that my way is the right way. Because, again, let’s not insult anyone’s intelligence. I don’t suppose for a second that my way is the high way. I have, after all, been reading harlequins and chick lit (otherwise known to some as “book porn”) since a very tender young age. I went to university, I lived in residence, I KNOW my way is not the best way. At least, not for the majority of human beings. I am, myself, just somewhat of a lemon. (Should I mention that self-deprecation is my favourite form of humour. This is why I love Meg Cabot so much. And I do say love in a purely platonic way. Let’s reiterate that I am a straight female.)

So if this blog is neither to complain, persuade or justify, what the heck am I writing it for? I’m not entirely sure. Mostly it’s because I woke up after a friends wedding with a cranky, headachy hangover and my friend Lia said that she had come up with the most brilliant idea: that I should blog about my crazy, messed up decision to not jump into the sack with just any guy. Which of course, made the little hangover monster in my head snarl, “why the hell would anyone want to read about THAT?” while my inner narcissist thought that writing solely about myself would be oodles of fun. As long as, of course, nobody (with the exception of my new found “manager”, Lia) knows my real name. So there you have it, this blog in a nutshell. Welcome to the boring, misguided and otherwise entirely delicious blog of (obvious pen name here) Bryony Swenson.