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Dear MYSTERY WOMAN,
I don't know why I want to ask you out, to be honest. You listen to Lily Allen, and I hate Lily Allen, and I know if we were going out I'd have to listen to Lily Allen with you. You don't share my enthusiasm for country music, as far as I know. I haven't bothered to ask, but from what detective work I've done, I know you don't own anything with Emmylou Harris on it. You don't look like Suzi Quatro either, so you can't possibly be my dream woman, but for some reason I really want to ask you out on a date somewhere.
Perhaps it's that poem about prostitution you wrote and asked me to read, or the way you get every one of my jokes- actually, it's the way you understand my whole life is a running joke, and I'm really not like that. That upper-class accent you have going on is awfully dapper. Suave, one could say. Bloody hell. I don't even want a girlfriend! I haven't the time to make anybody else happy, I'm having enough trouble making myself happy in the time I have between doing all this coursework for college and sleeping and keeping up appearances. And before you know it, I'll have left the country for a foreign education. What good am I? No good. But I really want to ask you out and I want you to say yes.
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