Muse

No, not the band- even my admittedly rubbish music taste doesn't sink to such depths.
I meant me! And I've sort of been doing Snooopy dances about it all day- which is fabulous, cos it means I can put off that gym visit for yet another day and not put on weight.

Flicking manically through the papers lying round the living room is one of those weekly things I just have to do; I'm far too disorganised for my own good and am always always always losing my essays, and I do tend to take it out on everything else in sight. Reaching round behind the stereo my elbow hit the pile of folders to my right and everything went flying, engulfing me temporarily in a paper snowstorm of my own making. Swearing fluently, I stooped to pick it all up again- an aerobic feat all in itself when wearing heels (I'm just ever so very good at making excuses why I don't need to go to the gym), I came across a piece of paper with quick sketches drawn in pen. Frowning slightly as I tried to separate the images, I recognised the same expression on the page before me- just a slightly more elegant version; pen strokes do tend to have that effect, but also, it's not too hard to make a drawning of a frown cuter than the real deal.
I suspect the real deal is going to give me premature wrinkles.

Arming myself with coffee I retired to the couch to check this out.
There were a few pictures of me, frowning over a bitch of an essay but I thought, the angles not quite right here. And then it clicked; he'd drawn me from my reflection in the window.
Aww.

I've done a little research, and my concern that muses and artistes had to do the whole sex thing has been quelled. So I can now get back to enjoying this in peace, without that horrid nagging doubt hanging over my head.

But he reads this. So, it's not that he's not hot..