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When one looks in the box, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the cat.

Reactor

At a recent book signing, Joan Green, 24, stunned her friends when she admitted that upon meeting Neil Gaiman, she did not find him attractive. “He was nice and all,” she confessed a few minutes after getting a copy of American Gods autographed. “But, he’s not, you know, my type.”

One of Green’s friends, speaking anonymously, said, “She’s lying. Everyone thinks he’s dreamy. Everyone. Even Hillary Clinton.”

Stormy Tombs, author of Britgeeksexgod: The Story of How Hot Neil Gaiman Is, agrees. “This is an obvious ploy for attention. Ms. Green must think she’s pulling some reverse psychology, like he’ll come running to her, entreating her in his gorgeous East Grinstead accent, begging her softly for her love with his full lips and scruffy, occasional beard. It won’t work. He loves only me.” Ms. Tombs went on to say that her book, due out this fall, will feature a scratch-and-sniff page replicating the scent of his leather jacket, a fold-out spread of his autograph-calloused middle finger and several dozen poems about his hair. Tombs claims she and Gaiman will some day marry under a canopy of glittery spiderwebs in an abandoned tube station.

Green, meanwhile, maintains that she enjoyed Gaiman’s work, but prefers her men to be “more the Vin Diesel type.”

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