It was a sultry summer evening. The air in that southern town hung thick and humid, enveloping all in a dewy embrace. The young and beautiful moved languorously through the steamy streets. The strips of their clothing concealed nipples, groins, and not much else.

I wasn’t looking to fall in love that night. I was already a kept woman with a man and two cats at home.

I wasn’t looking to lose myself in those big, brown kohl-lined eyes. I was merely trying to escape the heat on the streets.

And so it happened that I followed the throngs into an air-conditioned club. It was there, amidst Abercombie Angels and the devils they dated, that I first laid eyes on G.

And he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

Ghostly pale with rosebud mouth and dark, tousled hair, I was instantly smitten. From the moment I glimpsed my lovely G., my body reacted. My fingers tingled, my mouth went dry, somewhere synapses fired, and in the pit of my stomach, butterflies swarmed.

More than a chemical response, my reaction to G. was a chemical romance.

A My Chemical Romance.

…

OK, so if you’ve read my blog for any amount of time, you know I love boys who wear makeup. And my very favorite boy who wears makeup is Gerard Way, super sexy lead singer of post-hardcore screamo emo outfit, My Chemical Romance.

I lurve him.

I want to have his babies.

I want to make his breakfink.

I want to very carefully, sweetly, and softly, pressing into his taut flesh—drops of perspiration rolling off our bodies—black his deep, dark eyes with a MAC crayon.

Because nothing says loving like artfully applied guyliner. Yum!

And so, for two years Gerard and I have been intimately involved—if only in my organic-raisin-addled brain—in a wonderful relationship. So sexy in hot pants in horror makeup, Gerard is my rock star boyfriend.

Or at least he was … until today.

Now some west coast queen is reporting that Geeheart’s a rock star husband. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s not married to me.

Shee-yit.

Oh well. I guess that marriage was inevitable. After all, they say the good ones are either gay or taken. And we know he’s not gay. I know how to turn ‘em, and we haven’t even dated yet.