I'm in love with Michele Bachmann. There, I said it.

Please remind me, since it's been a while since I've fallen so hard for someone.

What are the telltale feelings?

A churning in the pit of your stomach, a desire to squeal like a feral boar, an overwhelming sensation of having been grossly and profoundly offended?

If all are true, and I think they are, I'm hopelessly and sloppily in love with Representative Michele Bachmann, Republican Congresswoman from Minnesota.

There, I said it. IloveherIloveherIloveher. I feel alive every time she opens her mouth and serenades us with such gems as, "The big thing we are working on now is the global warming hoax. It's all voodoo, nonsense, hoakum, a hoax." What a woman.

I'm in love with the way those tiny crop circles of rain bead up on her well-sprayed hair. I'm in love with how she so effortlessly portrays the part of Barbie's crazy aunt who prays every night for that homo Ken.

The manner in which she announced her candidacy for the Republican Presidential Nomination at a debate for Republican Presidential candidates was masterful, and yes, I was turned on.

Highly offensive, and way hot.

I'm not easily offended, which is why I'm sure it's a sign that I'm smitten with this woman who has pasted her personal bumper sticker on America's three-wheeled Radio Flyer of Crazy, the Tea Party.

Seriously, not much offends me. For instance:

When someone decides to sand her fingernails next to me on public transit, dusting my eyes with collagen-inspired particulates, I'm not offended. Heavily grossed out in a DNA terrorism victim kind of way, yes, but not offended.

When a car pulls out in front of my bike, nearly transforming my body into road pudding with a plastic helmet, I'm not offended. Am I extremely pissed, since I'd previously taken every measure to ensure that I'm lit up like Caesar's Palace with a spandex moose knuckle? Yes. Offended? No.

When certain people with whom I work, speak of "needing" those Stuart Weitzman pumps or that Kate Spade New York handbag, I feel pangs of amazement. Their shallowness rivals only the summer kiddie pool at Lincoln Park around four o'clock when it's two parts water, one part urine, yet I'm still not offended.

So when my Micky (my new pet name for her) announces that she will abolish the Environmental Protection Agency, instituted by none other than Richard Nixon, as one of her first executive actions, I feel so offended that I may have no choice but to leave my wife and take a chance on this vixen.

I realize I may discover her in bed with Exxon Mobil, spooning in the afterglow of another "drill, baby, drill" moment, but I'm ready.

And highly offended.