Ah, my dears, Ro’mama is in a bit of a funk today. I think my horoscope for this week said “Pisces, hon, the best thing to do is find a rock to crawl under,” and I now firmly believe in astrology. Coworkers going out of their way to gratuitously p!ss me off, two cranky teenage daughters, and a massive raging case of writer’s block, just in time for NaNo. Even DH, the lord of the Far Junior College, has behaved in a most ungentlemanlike manner.
Ah, me. I fear I shall go into a decline. In such circumstances, there is only one known cure: a triple dose of Darcy, stat. Only the dripping wet glory of Regency masculine pulchritude can save me now.
So, meine Kinder, not one, not two, but THREE delectably drenched Darcys for your appreciation. I defy anyone with a drop of estrogen in her body to ponder these without cheering up.
I feel better already.