the life and musings of a kinky slut

Dear Donald Glover

I know you’ll never read this, and that’s okay. Still, I needed to write you this letter.

I posted a half-silly tweet earlier today after seeing your movie. I say half-silly because a part of me, and it is not small by any measure, sees something in you that draws me in. I see a spirit I want to be around, a person I want to get to know.

It starts with your eyes. I love looking at your eyes. There is a lightness in them, a bright joyful invitation for happiness to become a part of everyone’s world.

And then there’s your smile, wide and full. When you smile, I can’t help but smile back. I can’t help but feel glee whenever my lips react to your lips, and I become a smiling fool.

But then you speak. 

Yes, you are beautiful. No one can deny that. But your words, your mind, your sexy sexy brain. Your looks make me blush. Your thoughts melt me whole.

I actually remember the moment when I decided to buy Camp. I was listening to the preview snippets and you made reference not only to Rugrats but also to Fresh Air. I was hooked. I knew your music was for me.

Each time I’ve heard you since, as few and far between as they have been, still reinforces all I see in you: intelligence, thoughtfulness, and a way of seeing not only culture from a broad lens but also the nuance of the individual.

You’re kind of amazing, which makes this letter so bittersweet. You’ll never read, never know, there is someone out there who, if given the chance, would just want to sit and talk with you for hours. Pick your brain about society, and cultural identity, and the reshaping of what it is to be in this time while occupying this space.

I’d want to verbally spar with you, and then somehow find a way to connect with you, to be with you. Really be with you with. Because your lips I so want to kiss. And your breath on my neck is a thought almost too much to bare, but I would gladly succumb to it.

Alas, you are you. And I am me. And the likelihood of us ever having that conversation, or any encounter, seems infinitely less likely than you ever reading this, which seems as improbable as, I guess, finding love always is.

I still haven’t found it. I don’t know if I ever will. But at least you occasionally make me smile, and make me think, and give me hope that one day I’ll find another pair of bright eyes, with a wide smile and a sexy brain, to hold close at night.

Until then, thank you for your introspection, reflections, and thoughtful musings, as well as the occasional laugh.



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