Recipe for a Frankenboyf

Call me Victor and wait patiently for lightening because today we’re sewing a patchwork quilt of body parts and personality traits – metaphorically of course. Living, breathing human beings are renowned for their imperfection, and even the idealist must accept that one cannot be good at everything. Alas, this is true even for fiction, even the literary is tarnished by those pesky harmatias.

But fear not, I have a delectable mental smorgasbord of fictional boyfriends that may finally be put to good use, information which has been waiting for what feels a millennia to do something of merit, to make a delicious mega-sandwich, enough to satisfy even the largest of appetites.

And in case you’re wondering, no, the food analogies do not end here.

Now, it must first be established that this objectification of the male form is in good humour. Boys, I’m not being serious when I say we only want you for your abs, your bums and tums, and your biceps – this will become clear soon enough.

Having said that – Damon Salvatore, Jace Herondale, Heathcliff? Every YA heroine’s other half is, to some extent, an Adonis, a perfect visage of the male physique. So, as I don’t speak for everybody’s tastes, imagine at will. Though I’m pretty sure my conception of physical perfection is a combination of Paul Wesley’s Stefan Salvatore and Patch Cipriano alla Hush Hush. I mean Wesley’s biceps – come on.

The eyes, the smile, the perfectly tousled hair – this all comes into play too and again, we all have our favourites. But for the sake of our Frakenboyf’s authenticity, we’ll use Jace Herondale’s golden eyes and Edward Cullen’s esteemed ‘bronze’ locks, but really, just season to taste.

But we all know that looks are just the packaging. What tastes better, the tinfoil and paper, or the actual KitKat?

Well I suppose that depends on whether it’s just the regular wrapper, or one made of gold leaf. Granted, the packaging won’t sweeten the chocolate, but it does sweeten the deal. These are the facts. Elizabeth Bennet’s proclamation of love for Mr Darcy conveniently coincided with her viewing of Pemberly. Maxim De Winter was the original sugar daddy. Christian Grey won Ana Steele over with his helicopter…amongst other things. And though we may admire Jane Eyre for taking the high road to a distant village, where she opportunely stumbled into a fortune – when in the position to be spoilt, who other than her would refuse?

But still, I brought the KitKat because I like KitKats, the packaging may have helped me make up my mind, but I wouldn’t eat it if I hated wafer; the KitKat would be out of the open window. I’m a busy student, I don’t have time to nibble the chocolate off of the sides.

A good KitKat has a good chocolate to wafer ratio. This brings to mind the equilibrium between nice guy and bad boy. A chocolate brownie would be a better analogy here – a little tough on the outside, gooey in the middle. That is to say, the frankenboyf must be a combination of a kind, thoughtful, loyal and giving in nature, alla Peeta Mellark, whilst giving off that dark and brooding, leather-jacketed, sassy Damon Salvatore vibe that we all love. A bit of both if you please.

And of course, there are the little things that really make this proverbial KitKat special –it’s that satisfying snap as you break it in half, the interesting variation  of flavours (which I’m told range from Blueberry Cheesecake to Soy Sauce). And in the case of our Frakenboyf? Heathcliff’s passion, his unwavering loyalty to the very end; without the grave digging, skeleton hugging, possible hallucinations and overall descent into madness. Mr Rochester’s intelligence, his disregard for norms and etiquette; without the cynicism, and, you know, the secret wife in the attic. Tobias Eaton’s vulnerability, without the violent outbursts; Jace’s confidence without the arrogance; Patch’s humour without the scorn; Neville Longbottom’s kindness – to name a few.

Though undoubtedly, the thing that makes this KitKat so goddamn delicious, so necessary, is the fact that we’re on a diet and you simply can’t justify that high of a calorie intake for such a little chocolate bar – that is to say, we can’t have them. Not only are they fictional, they are also out of our league. As in reality, hot potential boyfriends always go for their proverbial equivalents: the Clarys, the Bellas, the Noras, the Elenas. We can only assume that our frakenboyf would end up making his own frankengirlf – but that’s a matter for a whole other blog post.

And so the illusion crumbles.

If we’ve learnt anything from romance novels it’s that perfect is never perfect, and as far as the Frankenboyf? Mary Shelley has been all over that – Victor’s attempt to reanimate decomposing body parts, flipping off mortality (the original human harmatia) was a very bad idea. We can safely assume that the Frakenboyf would break down and go on a rampage through the arctic circle.

But like the foil beneath the red KitKat jacket, there’s a silver lining. Because perhaps I’ve been looking at this metaphor the wrong way the whole time. Maybe we’re all just broken chocolate bars – and that isn’t as bad as it seems. We’re imperfect, but so is every other half. And you’re a delicious treat either way.

But that’s not a justification for cannibalism.