Mr. Darcy

Over the years, I’ve been sucked in again and again by your sang-froid, your stateliness, your brooding tall, dark, and handsomeness, your ability to make me hot just by climbing out of your pond, soaking wet and fully clothed.

Since you are, well, not real, I’ve looked from here to Hampshire for a flesh-and-blood Fitzwilliam. I have not fared well. I entertained one yahoo because I thought he’d look dashing astride a horse wearing one of those long coats you fancy. I swoon at the sight of those things, the way they sweep the ground as you walk with determination, legs encased in breeches and knee boots…

I digress.

I dated another gentleman who, like you, was sensitive and felt deeply. But he didn’t act on shit. He just stewed in his emo juices. Miserly compliments and infrequent attentions kept me wondering about his intentions until he laissez-faired us to death. I mean, how long is a girl supposed to hang in there, in hopes of securing moody blues like you?

Let’s not forget the know-it-all narcissist who had clearly spent some time at Pemberley in your company. He was a real treat, spamming familiars and strangers with his prideful advice and prejudiced judgment. Proclamations as pillow talk don’t exactly blow my petticoat up, sir.

Darcy, you’re a prick. You don’t like to dance. You throw your best friend around like a ventriloquist’s dummy, telling him what to do and say. Bingley's one step away from sitting on your lap. Not cool. You publicly skewer a gal for her lack of connections and lowly parentage—we can’t get enough of that—while secretly admiring her moxie and form. You bottle up your feelings until they bubble over and you blurt out your affections, telling her you love her despite your better judgment. Be still, my heart. This is going to take a lady off guard, particularly since she’s spent nigh on a year avoiding you, wondering what she ever did to irk your shit, and thinking you’re a grade-A, navel-gazing jackwipe.

Yeah, you came through in the end, saving the Bennet family from social disgrace and all that. Always the hero, Mr. Darcy, you’ve ruined me for the real world of dating. No man can measure up and yet, I don’t want to hold them to your standard, since you—how can I put this delicately?—suck.

You’ve screwed me, and, indeed sir, not in a good way.

(photo: friendsoffirth.com/pride/index.html)