You are the main character of a television program entitled Rectify and I am in love with you. I’m married to someone I love more than I do you and there is someone else you definitely love more than you do me*, so our relationship will unfortunately not go beyond this letter. Also, (and this might be the main barrier…) you’re fictional. But I love you none-the-less.
Your language is literature, your demeanor is gentlemanly, your temperament is peaceful, and you will fuck a bitch up when need be, but it only needs be when a bitch doesn’t really know you. You are a man of virtue who has been dealt heavy blows that not too many people get back up from, still breathing. Not only do you get up, lungs full of air, but you do so with class, a quip, and a calm smile.
You can demolish kitchens, paint pools, recite poetry, cook, and waltz. Practical and useful skills, if you ask me. You cannot hold your liquor, though, and you have questionable taste in friends, but that comes with the territory of living in the South where a lot of people are pretty awful. Not you, though. Nor your mother. And definitely not your sister, who I’d really like to be best friends with. I think I may be in love with her too, but mainly just because I want to chain smoke cigarettes all day and have someone else to do it with.
The people you’re attracted to are as painfully emotional as you are, in the greatest sense of the words. Given the opportunity, you’d treat them as though they were your favorite person for the rest of your days. And if you’re never given the opportunity to do so, you’ll just do the next right thing anyway.
You’ve also got one killer head of hair.
I could go on, but seeing as though my previous blog post dealt with stalking, it might be best if I stopped here. So, for these and many other reasons, I profess my love for you.
*This was not a sly way for me to say “do me” to you, Daniel. I swear.