there is in this thriving metrapolis a woman who shares my taste in men. tender with onions, lightly fried.
But on every other sphere, we differ completely. And if I throw away the fig leaf of modesty, (there...off it flutters) I feel snottily superior.
The sole similarity disturbs me however. Why? because I took to heart what Francisco D'Anconia (the only Rand character I liked) said. Something to the effect that the person you love is a reflection of your deepest, most secret self.
In short, you might scream from the rooftops that you hate metrosexual men and secretly be drawn to clean nails and freshly scrubbed skin.
So I wither at the thought, peel away, froth at the mouth...you get the idea...of being attracted to the same men she is.
P.S: I shall pay for this post. I shall fall irreversibly in love with someone blatantly unsuitable. Given the time I spend in autos, it will probably be a rickshawala.