We are all capable of manufacturing romance. We know exactly what we're supposed to feel, so we make ourselves feel it; we know exactly how we're supposed to act, so we play the part to (cough) perfection (cough). In the end, like everything else of any consequence in this world, it's a fashion choice. If you're lucky or unlucky enough not to have the Real Thing konk you over the head like a caveman on a third date, you can actually go for a lo-o-o-ong time thinking that the $30 knockoff number you're sporting feels exactly the same as the four-figure original.
Until, of course, you try that original on, and your skin goes nuts because it knows the difference between silk and sandpaper even if you don't.
It's the Skin Thing, folks. You touch someone, or someone touches you, and all you want to do is not let go -- like, y'know, ever. Do you want to talk? Yes--you want to say "Shut up and kiss me." Do you want to share your hopes, your dreams, your fears? No--you want to share a shower. Do you hear the music of the spheres when you see each other, or an aria from Mozart? No--you hear "Hot For Teacher" and you can't get it out of your stupid head.
That's me right now: suffering God's revenge on those who think too much.
GOD: You think too much? Okay--here's a girl who's gonna do an end run around your brain. Try thinking about that, sucker. Oh and by the way? This is what the Real Thing feels like that. Try to remember that, the next time to manufacture it out of thin air. [Cackling laugh.]