- 5:21 am - Tue, Oct 2, 2012
- 1,587 notes
My name is Justin Valmassoi and I love you. I love you because I am drunk, and while you may rally the banners and claim that’s not enough I argue that love is at least 63% alcohol in this, the twilight of the American age, and that any love, any love at all, between strangers, between the rosy pink and soft tangerine of the dawn and the mottled mauve and aubergine of evening, is more than we deserve. I love you with my open and foolish heart for loving, even just a little bit, the arguable art which I set before you once or twice daily on weekdays and zero or several times on weekends.
It is not this bottle of Lagunitas’ seasonal Little Sumpin’ Wild ale, nor the tiny but effective array of pumpkin ales I imbibed beforehand, but rather the tenuous but nevertheless very real and almost tangible thread of humor and honesty, the tiny chuckles and furtive fanmail you and I have exchanged these last fifteen or so months, that make our relationship tick.
I love you for being there, silent or stalkerish. I love you for hating coconut water as much as I do. I love you for helping me marry the woman I love, even if 20 people unfollow me every time I mention her.
We’re entering the home stretch of the ATIAC book, which I naturally assume you’ll buy and give to your friends/grandparents/pastors/teachers/lovers/children and/or friends, and I am not going to lie to you, it’s a massive and horrible pain in the keister. Kiester? Keestür? I have no idea how you spell that. It’s a pain in the balls, and it is due to the publisher in exactly one month.
If I am lax in updating, or disappear entirely for days on end, or even if I just post photos of Tavi Gevinson and demand that we elect her as President of the United States of America for the next 18 years, forgive me (although I honestly want you to think about how much having Tavi as president might genuinely improve our nation’s standing globally, and what it would mean to the young women of the world to see one of their own, confident and capable, at the helm of what was once a careening ship of despair and debt, guiding us gently but with humor and grace toward a stylish and sustainable future).
I am very busy and very tired, incredibly nervous and wracked with insecurity, and my head is not, in the parlance of our time, “in the game”.
Give me October to run myself ragged and weep in dim corners and I will return in November like a sad, graying phoenix in H by Hudson Angus boots to deliver the llamas and otters that help so many of you through your dreary and horrid days of cubicle misery and college angst.
You are all, no matter how crooked your teeth and stringy your hair, gorgeous as far as I am concerned, and I wish to hell I could buy you a hundred beers and poke you in the cheek while we discuss how infuriatingly long we have to wait for the next season of Game of Thrones.
You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey, which is every day because I live in Seattle.
And, as any good Mountain Goats fan will tell you, we are gonna make it through this year if it kills us.
You’re the best.