My Ovaries Think There Are Better Things To Quiver Over

I'm being forced to become a Keith Urban fan. Forced, and I'm not exaggerating for any comedic effect. I work with a girl who heard that I'm in love with Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty. After trading stories of him, she told me that she's also in love with Keith Urban, and when I didn't share any emotion to her attachment, she became convinced that, well, she could convince me that I should.

His music is now a part of my hard drive, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I've even been to Monkeyville. While I admit that he's hot, and there are things I would do with him alone in a dark room that I cannot utter on this blog because my mother some times reads here, I'm just not that into him. He's sexy. He's really sexy. He has about the most gorgeous hair I've ever seen on a man, and the way he rides his motorcycle and plays the guitar is rather hot. He's got tattoos, which I also totally dig, providing they're not covering the entire body. He's also Australian, which can never hurt.

But dude. I'M JUST NOT THAT INTO HIM.