falling off the horse

There'll always be a Mr. Big to an Aidan, a Jess to a Dean, a Ryan to a Luke; and for some reason or rather, it's always the more dysfunctional twit who ends up as Prince Charming at the end of each season. The one who'd ride up to your doorstep with a Heinneken in his left hand and a suit fresh off the RM1 salvation army store riding a horse that can't take a shit without swishing its tail in the way.

Why do we desire trailer park material over the knight in shining armour? The squeeky clean valedictorian would barely be able credit himself to a recurring thought of a time of day; the spot for the one that got away will always be reserved for the most emotionally confused ex. You know he loved you in his own futile little way, but he was bound to screw up somewhere; it was expected of him. You move on, but somehow a presence follows.

Yesterday, I dreamt I woke up to a Mr.Big who was listening to my rhythmic breathing, stroking my hair; waiting to welcome me to a new day. I hyperventilated upon opening my eyes to the too frequently regurgitated face; I had expected to see my present Aidan. I got up. I started to pace. I thought. I freaked.

If I am so very much in content with my present Aidan, why does Mr.Big still reoccur?