I hope that it is less than painful for you.
My blog name I stole from an someone who is an eternal gentleman, scholar, and his mother dressed him well. Sir Will S.
Let me not to the marriage of true mindsI read this sonnet at two of my dearest friends' hand fasting ceremony, and it was made more lovely by the knowledge that my favorite sonnet was personified in them. Of course, being romantic and mischevious, they also had Sonnet 130 read, "My mistresses eyes are nothing like the sun." And although most people found this odd, I found it perfect and refreshing. We are but human, no one is the personification of perfection, no one is beyond reproach. And yet we love. Passionately, Deeply, Truly. Sometimes we love too much. But we love the imperfections that make our lovers that much dearer and sweeter to us. Yes, their dirty socks on the floor drive us insane, but that unselfconscious ear tug when they are thinking seriously about what you are saying, or that deep restless sigh that issues from them as they turn over three times in order to get comfortable in bed, and that soft little divet just below their belly button that makes your lips yearn to kiss and makes them blush because they "could lose a few pounds" make us wild about them. Perfection is boring, it has no place to go. But imperfection, that holds the promise of an ever fixed mark.
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.