Okay, so I’ve been slouching on the couch for the past hour or so, trying to find something to write about. It was only as I sipped my Jelly Baby juice, (which in reality is just Apple and Blackcurrant squash topped with lemonade. Try it, it tastes of childhood.)  I remembered a conversation Ian and I had last week.

I was stalking celebrities when he looked over my shoulder.

‘You make me so paranoid about how I look.’ He smirked.

‘What?’ I said, still half dazed after looking up from the screen.

‘Well, all these celebrity crushes you have…’

‘Yeah?’

‘They all look weird. Like, I don’t get how you find them attractive. Do I look as weird as they do?’

And that’s when I realised, after all these years, I do have a ‘type.’ I never thought I did, I thought I just fancied who I fancied, and that was that. But, turns out, there is a pattern. In fact, I could even make an advertisement.

Do you have a long face, dark hair, and light eyes?

Are you at least 6 foot?

Are you at least 30?

If you answered yes to all of the above,  I’d probably have a crush on you.

I don’t even know, I’m sure there’s probably some deep psychological reasoning behind why I fancy men at least 10 years older than me. It’s strange, and made me question myself for at least a day before I went back to stalking people.

And it is weird. Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston? (But only as Loki. That wig does something to me, I swear.)  Why? My mum likes to joke about how ugly they are, which I think is just rude. Plus she married a man 20 years older than her, so if anyone’s to blame for my ‘bad’ taste, it’s her.

I came to the conclusion that it’s okay though, because Ian looks nothing like those guys. And although I watch clips of them every day, and spend a lot of time daydreaming,  I chose him, and he’s a huge part of my life.

So I guess there’s hope for me yet.

PS. Sorry for that soppy ending, it was very hard to try and give this post a clean finish. It won’t happen again. Also forgive my really bad paint skills in the photo.