Dear women of the Princeton Record Exchange:
I’m sorry, but you aren’t my secret crush anymore. I’m leaving you for the ladies of The Bent Spoon.
I’ll remember you all fondly. No matter how many RuPaul CD singles or unreleased William Shatner movies I brought to the counter, and no matter how many times I had you run empty searches of your inventory for Dannii Minogue, you never brought down the hammer of indie condescension. You showed me the patience of saints; blessed are those who buy Fred Schneider solo albums. Plural.
And while a general regard for my existence is really all I ask for in a girl, I must still move on. You may fill my heart, but you cannot fill my stomach. That’s why my secret longing—and all of my cash—now belongs to the smiling women of The Bent Spoon. Their “European-style” hot chocolate—complete with a giant marshmallow square—saw me through a bitter winter. As did their chocolate chunk cookies, which I continue to purchase into the summer in spite of their increased price. And though I make surprisingly few purchases of their ice cream, every so often I go giddy over their dark chocolate milkshakes. I’m sorry, but you just can’t compete with women who encourage me to devour my own weight in sugar.
So congratulations, Bent Spoon Girls; you now have the everlasting love of a man who spends most evenings asleep on the couch with a half-eaten bag of dry pasta in one arm and a stuffed animal in the other. I love all of you equally, except for the girl with pink streaks in your hair. I love you more.
And when I gorge myself into a diabetic coma, rest assured I’ll slip under thinking of you.