The Conception of The Immaculate

We're well into the great Twi-drought of 2010 and the desperation amongst Twihards is palpable. The bitter, lonely longing is the prevailing emotional climate. The absence of him is everywhere you look. Facebook is desolate. Blogs are full of angst...unrequited yearning. The Twitterverse is a sucking black hole of unquenchable, burning desire. This, as Aro would say, is a sadness.

And just as we're all about to drop to our knees in anguished despondence, our salvation is miraculously delivered to us via email in the form of a simple JPEG file...

...and all is right with the world again. At least for a little while.

When photos like this innocently find their way onto my desktop, they are invariably accompanied by profanity muttered under my breath and then lightheadedness, chest heaving and copious salivation. It's a simple Pavlovian response these days. The Pretty One = Intense Eyegasmic Pleasure. I've learned to accept it.

Go ahead, I dare you to look at THIS, and have no physical reaction whatsoever.

You couldn't do it right?

It's okay. Don't chastise yourself. I basically set you up to fail.

Turns out, this level of lusciousness is impossible for a mere mortal to witness without setting off some sort of autonomic physical response, usually originating in the nether regions.

It's not your fault, it's just a base reflex, like blinking or breathing.

This one...

...buckled my knees, and all but incapacitated me for nearly three days. The smirk, the finger porn, the suit....hell the very notion of red wine on his breath was enough to cause my coworkers to break out the damn defibrilator. Shit got real.

Now, shocking my chest is routine for them. They do it while nonchalantly chatting and drinking their morning coffee. They've grown so accustomed to watching me fall unconcious in front of my monitor, that it's a routine part of their work day to revive me and isn't given any more stock than making copies or answering the phone.

It goes something like this:

I mutter "Holy HELL" followed by a loud thud as my body goes limp to the floor beneath my desk. Coworker in the nextdoor office shouts down the hall, "Denise....it's YOUR turn. I got her yesterday, twice." Denise rolls her eyes but knows that if she doesn't save me, the next time she crashes her hard drive there will be no onsite computer geek to save her sorry non-technical ass, so she does her thang and minimizes the photo (to save me from a quick relapse) and shocks me back to life, shaking her head and propping me back up in my $500 leather, urine stained office chair.

At least THEY think it's urine.

This whole cluster of fuckery started me thinking...exactly WHAT is it about this boy? I mean, let's be serious for a moment. He's a skinny, 23-year-old, self depricating British smoker with a slightly squishy nose, a crooked bicuspid, chronically messy hair, overgrown eyebrows and super lazy grooming habits.

And FMUDIACC* if every single damn one of those things about him doesn't make him infinitely more sexy and desirable. Exponentially hotter. It's just NOT natural. He's a freak of nature.

I can only conclude that something magical...ethereal...otherworldly is at work here. Something at the root of humanity. Something that occurred, like most genetic anomalies, at the very moment of his conception.

Something....like this:

It's simple statistical science. Sooner or later, the ultra rare sparkle sperm was going to find it's way to the once-in-a-lifetime shimmering ovum. The occurence of their meeting is so infinitesmally rare, that humans are lucky to witness its glorious outcome even once in their lifetime on this earth.

So, thank you Dick and Claire Pattinson.

Thank you for this.

THUD.

Beeeeeeeep.......Charge to 300......CLEAR!

*Fuck me Upside Down in a Clown Car