I want to be the sort of girl that is always in love.

It's a chronic, wonderful condition, this perpetual fever that leads the blood to sway in unconditioned means. I want to sip champagne because the doctor's ordered fluids, and feed the infection by sharing poached pairs in a little French restuarant. I'll walk barefooted to make sure that I'm diseased again, on grass beaded with the fringe of dew; dance underneath the lights of stars and the city harbour. It'll mean laying in bed past quarter to two on a Saturday afternoon, reading poetry and laughing at the sun through the filter of the curtains. I want the compliations of romantic music to plague me (Sad, little songs by Norah Jones and Michelle Branch) and to watch films like Breakfast at Tiffany's and Roman Holiday, films that you only really understand when you're sick with love.

It sounds Shakespearian, doesn't it?

By the way, I know this is an awfully fangirl-ish sort of thing to do, but happy birthday to Alan Rickman.

"Oh, by the way-- you'e a good writer. I expect you to be published."

I stood, suddenly rooted to the ground. My hand remained poised on the doorknob, ready to escape into the rows and rows of books outside. My lips automatically curved up in a smile and my cheekbones shaded themselves with a faint pink.

"Thanks," I said numbly, my traitorous heart skipping as it never does for any person.

"I know you probably know," she continued. "But it never hurts to hear it, does it?"

I shook my head quickly, loose braids swaying and brushing my chin as I did so. The air shifted subtly inside the room, and I felt myself expand to take it up. "No," I said. "No, it doesn't."

Outside I walked, skipping along the cracks in the concrete, feeling my hands warm inside battered green gloves, black patent leather purse gleaming in the sunlight. I could hear Hot Honey Rag playing in the background of my mind. My smile extended to include the whole world as I heard the finale swell. Published. My words. In print. My clumsy, misspelled sentences that slant themselves across a page of notepaper, seen in the glossy pages of simple-hearted editorials or smudged on a fresh sheet of newspaper. My stories, smelling of new books in the cool hush of a shop.

I know, just a small step up the Alpine Path. But oh, it was wonderful-- oh so wonderful!-- all the same.

I've just a few things to say.

I love fuzzy sweaters and frosty mornings; my favorite movies in the world right now are French ones (Amelie and My Wife Is An Actress). Ginny Weasley is my Harry-Potter twin child, because I just know that if I went to Hogwarts I'd been writing poems to the Boy-Who-Lived. Right now I'm wearing an enormous silver heart on a chain around my neck, and I have a faded black reminder to buy dog food on the way home. I can't live without my Ugg boots (partly because they were advertised in Vogue, mostly because they keep my feet toasty warm). If it wasn't wholly impractical, I would change my major to women's studies. Iris Murdoch's A Sacred and Profane Love Machine is worthy of a shrine, and nobody can make me laugh like my girls can on a late night. Italian cream sodas are to die for (along with love and other trifles) and I've been promised one this weekend. See, I have two real pleasures in life-- good food and good books.

Oh, and Jane Eyre is French! Seriously, how cool is that?