Hyperbole.

Having fancied Herself a maharani in all matters amourous, and kicked many a hapless suitor down the stairs and straight to hell, She now finds herself in the throes of the most callous n'er do well in all the land. He sleeps - sleeps!! - and peacefully at that!! - as she tadpaos herself to a shrivel, and only has to raise one sleepy, Scottish eyelid and look at her to confuse all her thoughts, scramble her soul and set forth a tremor through every cell.

What a wretched, devilish nuisance, she thinks to herself. I should go away! I should abandon him to his peaceful pillows and his football and his.... his... silky cheekbones. I should break them before I go!! Not for nothing was She once called the Queen of Sheba. And here she is now: from princess to puppy in one flash of a kiss. Shee.

But then he opens one eye and looks at her typing and shifts lazily amongst the pillows and says, almost inaudibly, awwwww... stop that racket and c'mere.
Mummee.

Bah. Grownups. Men. Princes. Whatever his affliction, I once had it. Calm, controlled, no trace of mad urgent rushing desire. And here she is now; she's had palpitations for 2 years while he sleeps all through the night. Peacefully. And chuckles after kisses instead of falling gloriously to pieces alongside her. Boff. Why can't he fall apart at the seams like me?! Why do I want to make him?!