My beloved Tracy Tracy,
Even now, nearly two decades since I first heard your delicate and hypnotic croon on the soundtrack to Dumb & Dumber, I still find myself completely entranced by it. I was but a child then, infantile and naive to the world around me, but now, as an adult, I can still hear you. I hear you every day. I hear you every night in my dreams.
I don't even care that Morrisey wore your band's t-shirt, not even that could rid my heart of those perfect, gemstone eyes. Morrisey could have even joined The Primitives and I'd still be unable to remove you from this special place in my soul that you inhabit. You're a permanent resident in the Costa Del Liam. You own the security key card to the door to my feelings.
I know there's quite an age difference between us, considering The Primitives disbanded close to my first birthday, but that matters little to me. Time comes and goes, but for you; I've all the time in the world. I'm dope sick on you, Tracy Tracy, I want to pick you roses from the botanic gardens of my otherwise black and decrepit heart. You are a heavenly opiate, one from which I simply cannot detox.
You probably have a husband by now, and if that's true, I will take my leave knowing that you are content with love. However, I am not entirely sealed away to the prospect of fighting your probable husband to the death in order to win your heart. If that was your wish, I would tear your husband's heart from his chest and drain every last drop of you from it. You are my kind of wonderful, Tracy Tracy, and I am not above cannibalism.
You are to me what those daffodils were to Wordsworth; wonderful, captivating, magnetic. You know that I'll get messed up too with you. Na na na na na...