If this was a romance novel, it’d be raining right now.
But this isn’t, and so it’s not. At some point, I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m not a woman of romance novels. I do not sigh forlornly. I don’t pine after brooding, dark-haired English gentlemen. My feet are not dainty, my features are not delicate, and my near-death experiences rarely, if ever, come from catching cold after getting caught in the rain.
Being a romance novel heroine is all good and well for the women who can hack it, but I’m not that kind of woman. In reality, I’m the kind of woman that romance novel heroines hear their friends whisper about. I’m the plot device that serves a sole purpose of causing other, more socially minded and appropriate characters to become utterly appalled. I’m the girl who blows the hero in a dimly lit alleyway right before he goes off to profess his undying love to someone else.
What can I say? It’s a gift.
And the thing is, I don’t even mourn the fact that I will never be a Jane Eyre or a Lizzie Bennet anymore, because in reality, all of that pining and sighing seems like it would wear on a woman, not to mention the fact that I would look perfectly ridiculous in a fucking bonnet. If you want something, dammit, you go get it yourself. There’s no shame in the wanting– even when it’s forbidden. There’s no time like the present to stop waiting around for some handsome, rich man to take you to O-Town and start getting some for yourself.
Or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve gotta come to when you’re not a romance heroine and it’s not raining.
I’m Zelda O’Bannon, and I’m here to break all of your rules.