I am the only me

Being my husband has got to be the toughest job on the planet. No, I’m not mean and I clean and wash clothes (I do not cook for various reasons) and tend to be fairly accommodating but I am really, REALLY demanding in the romance department. There is nothing he or anyone for that matter, can say to me or do for me that I haven’t already thought of and written in a book or a rough draft of a book. Really, he just can’t make me happy in that department. The last time I actually went AWWWW, was the fist time I heard, Most Uncommon Thing by Five Times August, though I had to give up on anyone ever saying that to me. (Okay, there was this one other time but it doesn’t count because he didn’t mean it…something about caring for me on a deeper level BS!) I don’t know what I expect. For him to spout sonnets? To have romantic dinners and lavish vacations? As English was not his first language, sonnets are out of the question and thanks to our kid and child support for his other kids, we don’t have the money for a vacation. I just want.. someone.. to say something to me that moves me. That pushes my heart down and forces my breath to catch in my lungs. Why is that too much to ask? Unfortunately, I have never met anyone like myself. Even the other authors I know seem to have their heads out of the clouds and their feet firmly planted on the this-is-reality-that-is-fiction soil. People just don’t say the things I do, or think the things I do.. or even want the things I do. Lately, I’m stuck in between being a hopeless romantic and an unyielding cynic. Romantic because in my heart, I still am. Cynic because in my head, I know it’s crap. All of it. Things don’t turn out the way they do in my books, people don’t love people the way they do in my books, and people just don’t say the things to each other that they do in my books. Sad.