You see, the problem with weaving rich fucking tapestries is that it’s like seeing one too many delightful rom-coms about soft-spoken, funny guys who say just the right thing at just the right moment. You start imagining that real-life guys never say clueless shit or smell like gorgonzola cheese. It’s like training yourself, through successive wanking sessions, to only get off on redheads with giant boobs. By filling our heads with Shower Fresh–scented fantasy worlds, we not only start to expect too much but we also become easily bored with the real world and its very real magic.
