If you’ve read Wuthering Heights you know that Heathcliff is supposed be this total jerkhead of a character. But not in my eyes. I love him. I love how dark and mysterious he is. I even love his evil, calculating mind. He’s dark and brooding. Not necessarily grungy, but definitely attractive in a swarthy kind of way. His hair is long, but not quite long enough to be in a ponytail. A ponytail would totally ruin it. And when he speaks, oh when he speaks! His voice is like when you cut into those molten chocolate cakes and the chocolate comes running out and you’re like can someone please get me out of these clothes? His perpetual 5 o’clock shadow would irk most girls, but not me. This is my type. This is who I will marry and make loads of babies with.
This Heathcliff-type that I have imagined as my ideal leads me to disregard any man who does not measure up to my Healthcliff-hot status. Lets HYPOTHETICALLY say I meet this cutie at a bar. We’re hitting it off, he’s saying all the right things, I’m playfully patting his forearm, and batting my luscious lashes. Things are going well. And then it hits me. It hits me like how all that ice in the Gatorade thingys hit coaches when they win the big football game or whatever. He’s hot, but he’s not Heath. (I call him Heath sometimes. He loves it). I mean, what if this dude treats me like a lady and doesn’t manipulate me any chance he gets? What if he doesn’t obsess over me after my untimely death and strike out angrily against anyone who even whispers a bad word about me? That just won’t do. And then I’m forced to make excuses like, “Sorry, my friend’s sick. I have to leave NOW.” And then he’s all caring and stuff and says, “Is there anything I can do?” And then I have to brush the poor lad off and say, “No, thats alright. This is usual for her. Har har har! Byeeeee!”
And another one bites the dust. So, naturally, I blame one person and one person alone: Emily Bronte. Look what you’ve done to me, Em. Are you happy with yourself? You’ve made it where I’m only able to find total brutes attractive.
But then again, my mother has always told me not to settle. So that settles it: I’m just gonna have to go to the Yorkshire moors to find my very own bona fide Heathcliff.
Oh, and speaking of the Bronte women, if you’re a Jane Eyre fan I highly recommend the latest movie version. I just watched it last night and thought it was totally fab.
But maybe I just liked it because Michael Fassbender is SO DREAMY. Like oh my gah.
When this scene came on I was up on my elbows, coming THIS CLOSE to devouring my computer screen. I know it’s completely out of context if you haven’t seen the movie, but can you honestly tell me that your breathing didn’t get a little shallow while watching this? Cut that sexual tension with a knife!
So yeah, I guess I kind of have a love/hate relationship with the Brontes. WHERE’S MY MR. ROCHESTER, I say!