browse around here Gaston Without Chill
mircette price Although no one asked or hired me to do so, I have personally assumed the job of Protector of the Patriarchy. If this town is going to remain small and provincial, then a strapping boy like me should be patrolling the streets for women who have more to say than “bonjour” in a casual conversation.
Currently, I’m taking care of a situation involving a peculiar mademoiselle. Belle is rather odd and rather beautiful—a perfect 10 save for her vocabulary, behavior, and general stance on male-female power dynamics.
Most horrifyingly, Belle has not publicly declared her love for me. She’s always “reading” a stack of “books” or “helping” her elderly “father.” It’s like, wow, could her excuses for avoiding my advances be any more fake?
Despite Belle’s coy defenses and overt requests for me to stop, I will continue to harass and manipulate her until she’s my wife because that’s how romance works.
Unfortunately, Belle does not know the first thing about romance. Instead of sighing into my chest hairs, she volunteered to become prisoner at an enchanted castle where she slowly fell for her monstrous captor day by day because it turns out he was just misunderstood the whole time.
So here’s what I’m thinking for my next move: mobilize an angry group of pitchfork-holding villagers. I’ve been working on these killer lyrics so we can sort of serenade Belle while we are tearing up the whole castle scene. It’s the perfect set up for her to realize whom she really loves and wants to cook five dozen eggs for every morning.
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So I’ve been doing some reflecting lately—and not just the kind involving shiny cookware or actual mirrors.
Belle does NOT love me or like me. Despite all those close-up views she’s had of the symmetrical cleft in my chin, she has never swooned in my presence. If I tried to decorate our house with antlers, she would tear them right down, simultaneously dismantling my ego.
If we were in a relationship of any kind, Belle would utterly eviscerate my psyche because her grasp on the human experience is so much better than mine.
I never thought I’d say this, but Belle should make her own decisions and pursue what she’s passionate about. If that means choosing an ex-beast over a champion of expectorating, she should do just that. If it entails her hiding that gorgeous nose behind a stack of books, she has every right to do so.
Continuing to pursue unrequited love will only result in heartache and self-loathing anyway. Instead of wooing women to use them as superficial status symbols, I need to take the time to find out who Gaston really is.
Maybe I’m the one craving adventure in the great wide somewhere. Lefou pretended he was joking when he mentioned that remote yoga retreat, but I’m going to get my registration fee in for the early deadline.
To Belle, Beast (or whatever name you go by these days), Maurice, all those talking candles and clocks, and the town that I have terrorized with my violent displays of “masculinity”: I’m sorry.
From here on out, I’m starting with the handsome (it’s true, please let me have this) man in the mirror.