McSteamy = McBadforme

For those of you perplexed by my title it is a reference to Grey’s Anatomy. I have recently become a fan (read: rabidly addicted) of this show and, having reached season 3, I am now blessed with regular appearances by McSteamy.

I mean…wow. Just…wow.

But despite the wow factor this character is bad news. We’re talking sleeps with everybody, just looking for a girl to save him, but can’t help but be a manwhore bad news. This is the guy that promises to never cheat on you again and he really, really means it--until he just can’t stop himself. Serial cheater this one.

Now, with that being said I’m not quite as ashamed of my new found McSteamy love as, oh say, Guy of Gisborne--at least McSteamy isn’t leaving his newborn child to die in the woods as bait for Robin Hood. But, here I am, a little bored, avoiding work, hanging out at my parents’ house watching my tv show and all of a sudden IT was there. No--not the clown. Grey’s Anatomy did not suddenly sprout fangs and attempt to pull me down to the deadlights. Or it did and I just never realized it; my integrity and pride does seem to be missing of late, but I think that’s just a side effect of the show.

No--there on my father’s shiny new HD TV Flatscreen in full crystal clear color was IT. The look. The look that says, “Hey baby, I know I’m bad news, but I’m just so hurt deep, deep down and I really, really want you to be the woman to heal me. Fix my broken heart; teach me how to love. I want to love you. Let me love you. I promise I’ve never felt like this before.”

You know the look I’m talking about. You know exactly that look. IT. No matter how old we are, no matter where we grew up, no matter how strong we think we are none of us is a match for IT. You can’t fight IT. You can’t withstand the full force of that broken, pining, beautiful please-love-me-pain even if you long since died inside and now pump your dead shriveled heart through sheer force of hate.

McSteamy gave that look and suddenly an avid appreciation for his steaminess turned into something much, much more intense. I (possibly) said out loud, “Oh! He’s just so broken!”

Me. I. I said that. (Possibly.)

I mean what is wrong with me?! What is it about broken, destructive, please-love-me faces that makes me want to forgive them? This is why if any of my fantasies came true it would be a murder mystery and not a romance novel. I don’t want the Cowboy or the Veggie Vampire. I want the psychopath who lives under the Opera and has a thing for strangulation. I want the husband whose so intense he may or may not lock me in the attic with his first wife while attempting to marry a third. I want the young jedi knight who is just so passionate he can’t help but kill all the little jedi babies.

Because clearly someone who commits genocide is excellent marriage material. (In my defense the attraction to that last one mostly stops after he loses all his limbs and gets burned by lava--that’s something, right?)

I’m just so incredibly screwed. My happy ending is not getting my happy ending so that I have a hope of living past the age of thirty-five.

But it’s not my fault. Isn’t McSteamy a step up at least? Isn’t it an improvement that I worked my way up from sociopaths to serial cheaters? At least the cheaters won’t kill me right? Right?!

DAMN YOU GREY’S!!! TV on DVD will be the death of me.