I love your feathers and your big ol' stretchy mouth. I love that you wear fingernail polish and make up and sparkly clothes and tons of jewelry and still come off as being totally hetero. I love that you're 150 years old.
Do I remember? Hell yes I remember. After all, I'm 100 years old.
I swear I cannot take my eyes from you whenever you tumble so gloriously through the electronic ether and into my living room via a magical LCD.
I love the way you call all those losers sweetheart on "American Idol." And those ensembles you wear? I should wear ensembles like that.
Sometimes I like to imagine you getting your hair done. Extensions and balayages and weaves. A clip-clip here and a clip-clip there. I like to imagine the way you regard your reflection with a studied critical eye as the obsequious stylist fusses away.
Goddamn how I dig you.
I don't think I ever loved you more, though, than when the fam and I were moving through the cavernous dusky rose portion of the queue for Disney's Rock 'n Roller Coaster and your screechy voice blasted from unseen speakers as the bovine-like crowd inched along.
Pink, it's my latest obsession.
Oh Stevie! Did you really just say that? You naughty naughty boy!
Hey! Wiki says that your dad was part German. So was my Mom! And your birthday is March 26. Mine is on March 31. OH MY GOD. Stevie--you Demon of Screamin' you--we are practically related.
If we, like, really knew each other, would you let me borrow some of your stuff, like, a skull necklace or one of your hats?
I so love you, baby.
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