Nicholas Sparks is the flame of love. I think I speak for all women when I say I don’t speak for all women. So let me speak from the heart: I heart Sparks, Nicholas.

I consider “The Notebook” to be one of the best books I’ve ever watched on television. If you were to ask any of my friends (that is, if I had any friends to ask), they’d tell you I’m as romantic as a man whose left eye always tears up because his right eye isn’t a glass eye, but rather an onion.

Put it this way: If Cupid weren’t a flying midget in diapers, I’d consider that myth to be about my life. Not that I’m not completely convinced it’s not.

But even if I were Cupid, and I probably am, I still couldn’t write as romantic a story as Nicholas Sparks. He is the master of romance. And since he is the master, I am wondering if he is seeking an apprentice.

Nicky, baby, if you’re reading this, shoot me a heart-tipped, arrow-shaped email to therealcupid@hotmail.com. You make me swoon.