Dear Watsky,

I love you.

No, I’m not some crazed groupie, who wishes for a one night stand in a grimy portable toilet after a foggy concert at Skully’s Music Diner. No, I’m not that kind of girl, although others find that unfortunate. I’m in love with your art. I’m in love with the passion and the perseverance emanating in your work. I’m in love with the way my heart beat can’t keep up with the pace of your speech. I’m in love with the catchy beat and one-liners that you effortlessly lay out before us like a Thanksgiving dinner.

You drop another album and I feast upon it with greed, like the pesky Uncle who gobbles down all the mashed potatoes before everyone has a chance to devour the mushy goodness that is so well desired. I’m that aspiring writer who tries her hand at essay contests, creative writing contests, and scholarship contests while failing numerous times without being shaken as she repeats your lyrics from "4am" in her head. I’m that girl with the battle scars on her thighs sitting at the bottom of the shower trying to recover as she remembers the lyrics from “Hey Asshole.” I’m the girl in love with your writing.

Don’t get me wrong, your rapping has the ability to keep my ears glued to a YouTube playlist of “Watsky’s Best” as I panic over the miles of bullshit ahead of me, but that isn’t what gets my heart skipping. It’s your writing. Your spoken word has to be by favorite. I listen and suddenly it’s something new. The words are a perspective of the every day that I never once thought to include.

You left me with a memory, you know? I wanted to see you in concert, but I was a Junior in high school scared of going alone because 1 in 5 women will be sexually assaulted. Now, don’t get scared or worried, I was not sexually assaulted. I’m safe right now as I sit beside my cat and loving boyfriend. That’s not the memory you left me.

No one wanted to go with me to the concert and I feared I’d miss an opportunity I’ve been waiting so feverishly for. So, I did what anyone would do after being rejected numerous times, I begged my Aunt to come. She had always loved concerts and she was always considered the life of the party. She had never heard your music, but when I found out you were going to be at Skully’s Music Diner in Columbus, Ohio - my hometown - how could I pass that up? I begged her and she relented.

I don’t think you saw us, we were two incredibly short girls in a crowd of giants. I have a short family. Believe it or not, I’m a college student who isn’t even 5 feet tall, but that’s why I have a tall boyfriend. He’s very helpful when I want cereal. So, I feel pretty confident in saying we went undetected. I went there to hear you say those lyrics that helped me to my feet and I was far from disappointed. You even gained my Aunt as a fan!

You gave us a night that I like to go back to when I think about her death. Unfortunately, she liked drugs more than fun times at Watsky concerts. I remember singing along and how quickly she learned the words. I can’t get it out of my head. That night there was a boy that we saw on the way home who held a sign that read, “$1 for a poem.” After hearing your concert we couldn’t refuse. We gave him $10 and listened to him read. He was good, but he didn’t look well. After all, it was downtown Columbus and he was sitting on the side of the street in dirty and tattered clothing. I loved the look on his face when he read us those poems. He seemed genuinely happy that someone wanted him to share his work. My Aunt praised him and wished him good luck. Funny, that was the same thing she did to me the day before she died.

I think about him and then you won’t leave my mind. You gave me a memory and I find myself clinging to your words like they’re my only tool for keeping my sanity intact. Now that she’s gone, I don’t have much family left. My mother died years before. My father and brother are driving towards caskets as heroin becomes their only love. I’m going through college in a fear that one day I’ll be alone, even though, they’ve already left me. Sometimes I pretend they’re still there, but when they refuse to answer my calls, the sick reality sinks in and I resort to the playlist that tells to keep marching on.

I watch the videos from that concert and I hold that memory the same way I hold my cat when I accidentally step on his tail. I can’t explain how much that memory has helped me accept things for how they are. Music is how you reach people, but for me, those beats and melodies are only noises. It’s your words that stumble into somersaults that have me head over heels.

I probably sound clingy and obsessed, but how else do you feel when someone has saved you? I read your book and I loved every minute of it. I’m proud to have you in my playlist and I’m proud to have a memory that I can love instead of regret.

Please, whatever you do, keep going. I promise to do the same.

For lack of better words, I wrote a mediocre poem that I hope you enjoy. Thank you for sharing your art. Oh, and hey asshole, keep smiling :)

Here’s your poem:

Am I allowed to love you

Would you be okay with that

Your name crisps to the tongue

As I repeat it with admiring diligence

Watsky, Watsky, Watsky

Even the name is something badass and quirky

You’re average with a mind nearly phenomenal

You shed your insecurities like a serpent's cast

With each rhyme you spill onto the sidewalk

I find myself drowned and restless

Dancing with you in the insidious mind

Of my mortal body

As if you would give me a second glance

Hell, I'd be so lucky to be looked upon once

You're "shaped different like Toblerone"

Your words not mine

But different is not bad

It’s like a glass of aged wine

You give poetry justice

And still

I wait here wondering if I could even get a handshake

From the hands that metaphorically

Pulled me out the open window of my flipped car

The hands that told me

If I love what I'm doing I've already succeeded

The hands that told me

Never forget why I put one foot in front of the next

You call me an asshole

And I honor your opinion

Because you admit you are one too

But even the best of us are

And I find that to be okay

As well as mighty fine

We can be assholes together

And make sarcastic remarks

As we drink our cold coffee

Looking for our rainbow

Your first words were

“Where’s the love”

And I sit here as I do

Offering it up

My fellow George

My fellow friend

My fellow Watsky, Watsky, Watsky

Tell me where your mileage ends

Because I’ll be there at the finish line

And even if you so-called “flatline”

Then I won’t mind

I’ll fist pump the air

Because if the mileage runs out

Then you can walk

Or I’ll drag you in my rusted wagon

Perfect for the misdemeanors of the average

And I will take you to heavens door myself