With Love Month approaching – well, I say month, but I mean week (Well, I say week, but I mean day) – three quarters of the modern world are planning on buying expensive gifts, cards, chocolates and roses – and some: engagement rings (not meaning to spoil anyone’s surprise) – to give to their other halves, thirds, quarters or however many others they may have ‘on the side’.
I bought a rose once that cost £12.99 on Valentine’s Day. If I’d have thought on, and bought it the day before, it would have been 50p. But I’ve always been like that – impetuous. And I bought the rose as a joke. I’ve always been like that too – not too serious.
Since the attempted coup yesterday by my Inner Selves, several ‘new’ aspects are demanding their time in the limelight. One of those new aspects is my Inner Lover, Tomanova.
I see him in my mind’s eye all pumped and glistening, happily stretched out seductively across a deep-red-coloured chaise longue, with the flimsiest of garments draped seductively across his fine, rippling physique.
I have a rippling physique as well, it must be said, only mine is more realistic. More fluid. OK, floppy.
Tomanova has the thickest and most luxurious hair of anyone I have ever seen. It could be messy or tidy and one wouldn’t notice any difference. Me – my hair looks messy when it is tidy.
His eyes are the bluest blue ever imaginable. One look into them and you feel as though you are swimming in a deep pool of crystal clear waters. My eyes water in bright light, and the blue is contrasted by the often bloodshot appearance.
He has a chiselled jawline that looks as though it was sculpted using a setsquare, whereas my jawline seems to be hidden by jowls, that, if I were to be photographed upside down, resemble a cascading mountain range.
His shoulders are broad and wide, tanned, and muscular. Mine are lopsided, but only when I stand.
His chest is defined and solid, accentuated by a nipple ring on the left side. My chest looks as though it is in dire need of a support bra, with a nipple ring that swings freely around my knees.
His stomach is like a washboard – mine’s like the tub.
His waist is tight and tiny – mine is wider than the rest of me.
His legs are firm and muscular, and mine are, well, just legs really. They do a good job though, in all honesty, supporting the rest of me.
One main difference between the two of us however, and it must be said, is that I’m real – and Tomanova is a mere figment of my imagination. Ha! Take that you perfect specimen of loverness, you.
Not that I’m jealous or anything.
As if.
But, I have Tomanova within me, so I could be all he is, chaise longue and all, if I so wanted. I don’t think I’ll bother though. Not intentionally, anyway. If I morph into him, all well and good, but I have other things to be getting on with first.
Keeping things real isn’t one of them, I’ll admit. Although I intend on saving £12.99 this year. Valentine’s Day? Bah humbug.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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