Just for the sake of comparison:

When I was 17 years old, I was an avid romance reader. I'd sneak all of my mother's Harlequin novels and lock myself in my bedroom and just absorb all of it's cheesy, dramatic, goodness. So when I started dreaming of this dashing, young fellow in a breezy, ruffled, white shirt (think Fabio or whatever any man on a…