I’m still pondering that last question.

Let’s face it—it seems pretty obvious that Cashore penned Brigan to be the perfect feminist love interest. He trusts Fire, he’s okay with her risking her life to help the kingdom if that’s her choice, he respects her as an equal.

And then there’s Asher: jealous, possessive, and man-whore of the Dells. Talk about a guy who likes to shoot his arrow. A LOT. I mean, preferring macho Asher to sensitive Brigan? Really? Maybe I should just give up my voting rights and knit my husband some slippers while he goes to a strip club.

Um.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that’s not all there was to it for me. Yes, Archer might have had some issues he needed to work out (some issues I think were caused in part by his and Fire’s emotional imbalance—he was madly in love with her, she did not feel the same) but he was so ALIVE. Fun. Vibrant. And for me, well, Brigan was kind of a sad-sack. *ducks rotten tomatoes from the horde of Brigan fangirls out there*

Really, though—I get that Brigan has HUGE, important issues to contend with, I do. His constant role as defender of his kingdom weighs heavily on him, so it’s not exactly appropriate for him to run around skipping and singing Lady Gaga all the time. But I also don’t find morose men especially attractive. Technology in Brigan’s kingdom just came up with reattaching amputated limbs—surely they could conjure up some anti-depressants, too? Because I think the poor guy could use some.

So for me, a big part of the Archer versus Brigan thing has nothing to do with feminism, and everything to do with personality. Like I said on twitter, I’m afraid for Fire, really afraid that after spending too much time with Brigan, she’s going to lock herself in her bedchamber and listen to the fantasy equivalent of Morrissey until she’s too depressed to do anything but eat chocolate and make the maids act out soap operas.

To be totally fair, some of my blatant Archer favoritism may stem from me being spoiled by romance novels. While I guess it’s more realistic for the love interest not to put the heroine number one before everything in real life, I think for Brigan, Fire ranked about 4th, after leading the army, his brother the King, his daughter, etc. For Archer, she was number one, and realistic or not, that’s worth something to me.

But no matter how much I explain, I can’t shake the feeling that Betty Friedan is rolling in her grave.

But there is progress. There are now two semi-coherent paragraphs that actually sound like I know what I’m talking about. But the rest is kind of…non-existent sketchy.

I mean, I’m reasonably certain my agent Taylor will NOT be impressed if I send her the following:

Trent…
Training exercise goes awry.
Before that can happen, though, the students must do x.
DEMONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Steph?
Foreshadowing scene…..
How many die??
DEMONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, this was cut and pasted from the second half of the actual synopsis. Just further proof that my brain, eet ees scary!

Anyway, in an effort to procrastinate hope it writes itself give my mind a little break, I decided to concentrate on something of vast importance: Sex and the City. Specifically, I’m wondering—which Sex and the City girl are YOU?

It came up on twitter the other day, and it got me thinking—I’m none of them. None. But, I do have favorites, and they might surprise you. Here’s my mini rundown of each character, in descending order of how much I like them.

Charlotte:

Pros: Sweet, proper, perfect wife
Cons: Sweet, proper, perfect wife. Honestly? Charlotte kinda bugs the snot out of me at times. Of all the characters, I honestly think she’s the most underdeveloped, and her pseudo-primness makes me want to wallpaper her car with pages ripped out of Playgirl.? She is a good friend in a crunch, though.

Carrie:

Yep, believe it or not, Carrie is my second least fave character. While she does have an amazing wardrobe, goes to cool parties, and gets to work as a writer (bonus points for that), let’s face it—she’s also kinda whiny and centers her life around men wayyyy too often for my taste.

Samantha:

Okay, so yeah, she’s narcissistic, a bit silly and overdramatic sometimes, but OMG–the woman knows how to have F.U.N! She’s also confident, successful, grabs life by the balls (often literally) and for the most part, doesn’t chase after some guy like he’s the salvation of the universe. She may be over-the-top, but you gotta love her even more for that.

Miranda:

?
I think Miranda is actually the most honest, thoughtfully drawn character on the show. She’s got a career, she’s got a kid, she struggles with body image sometimes, has romances but doesn’t live and die by men, and has a practical streak and a brain. She’s a perfect foil for the more flamboyant Carrie and Samantha.

“This thing is still running?” I eyed the rusty-looking beast that masqueraded as Reilly’s car. It had been a hearse—once. Before Reilly had gotten a hold of it and painted it ocean blue, the board racks on top providing the crowning touch. I winced when Reilly popped the locks and the door squealed open.

“Hey, don’t talk about her like that. She’s been good to me.” He patted the door. It groaned, bouncing on wobbly hinges.

“Uh-huh. And now you can be good to her by letting her retire in the old cars’ home. Or, god, at least investing in a can of WD40.”

He waited until I cleared the pile of food wrappers off the seat—seriously, did he live in this thing?—before closing the door behind me. He leaned in the half-open window with a theatrical sigh. “You never did recognize quality when you saw it.”

He ducked when I tried to peg him with a decaying Subway wrapper, the sound of his laughter filling the car with nostalgia. We’d had some good times together in this deathtrap, taking it down the coast, salty wind whipping through our hair. Summer had practically flown by as fast as the scenery. Which actually wasn’t saying that much. If I remembered correctly, this thing could only hit 60 on a good day.

Reilly cranked the engine once, twice, three times, before it sputtered to a start. “Woo hoo! We’re off! C’mon, let’s hear it—a little excitement. You’ve got to be pumped to be doing something you can’t check off your study schedule for a change. Can I get a woot? Maybe a yeah baby?”

My eye roll answered for me.

“No? How ‘bout a fist pump, then? Aw, c’mon. Relax a little. There’s no serious face allowed in the Reilly-mobile. In fact, I sprayed it with buzzkill repellant just the other day.”

His boyish grin dared me to return it. As we rumbled out of the school parking lot, I laid my head back on the cracked headrest, feeling an answering smile flirt with my lips. Whatever—why the hell not? To shut him up, if nothing else.

“Woot!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Then I pumped my fist out the window for good measure, laughing at my own stupidity. But when I rolled my head to capture Reilly’s reaction, the laughter fizzled in my throat. He was staring at me with this expression full of wonder. Like he’d just seen his perfect wave.

His gaze shifted back to the road. I noticed the muscles on his forearms straining under his skin like taut ropes. He glanced back, and the look was gone. It was just a typical Reilly smile, the same one he gave everyone.