An Open Letter

Dear David Archuleta,

Despite your really strange song choice last week, and despite my being in the bathroom puking just as you came on, please, take me to prom. Marry me. Serenade me outside my window. I turn eighteen in September, but you're only three months behind. Take me to a fifties'-style diner. We can share a milkshake and curly fries. In case you ever read this, here are pictures of you, because you should love you as much as I love you.

Now I just need a non-pedophilic picture of you looking coy, and you will exceed all levels of adorable-ness ever achieved before.
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