"Out with these clean-scrubbed, homogenized folks. Bring on the lithe, gangly-limbed, pale-faced, scruffy-haired, big-eyed, wide-lipped, strutting, slouching boys. They often seem to hail from England or Ireland, but that isn't a qualification, though the accent sure doesn't hurt. Bring me the boys who are rough around the edges, but sweet as sugar inside, the boys who paint or play guitar or write with a powerful voice but speak low and softly. Hand over those luscious specimens who are almost what'd be called "pretty boys," if they shaved a little more often, or cut their hair now and then, or didn't know they were bloody perfect in all their gorgeous disorder. Bring me these boys first thing in the morning, when they wake, their eyes full of sleep and their hair a rat's nest. Bring them before they've showered, not after. Bring them with holes in the knees of their jeans and sweaters from the Salvation Army. Bring them to me when they smell a little like last night's beer or tobacco, a little hungover and a little dazed. Always keep them a little hungry, a little seeking, a little dissatisfied, a little restless. Let them stay both innocent and cynical; idealistic but impatient. And deliver them all to me. I'll take VERY good care of them, I promise."

Heather has a certain thing for scrawny boys.

And oh, I can relate.
Read Sunday's entry while it lasts, folks. It's lovely.