Dear Ringo

Dear Ringo Starr,

You are perfect.

Your face is without a doubt the most endearing face in all of history.


Your picture on my bookshelf, of you smiling and drumming, wearing your signature gawdy bracelets, inspires me to no end.


I've been sitting here at my desk for almost three hours now, editing, writing, reading, reflecting. Every few minutes I look up to see your picture (which I've moved from it's place on the bookshelf to right beside me at my desk... I hope you don't mind), and your smiling face is laughing back at me. I think you're telling me to write about you.


I wouldn't put it past you.


Dear Ringo,


I want to name one of my sons after you, if I should be so fortunate as to have them. Atticus Ringo. I think it has a lovely sound to it.


You are so underestimated as a Beatle, and I can't tell you how much it bothers me that people think of you only as the funny-looking one with the big nose.


Your nose is a fine size. People should worry about their own noses.


Dear Ringo,


You might call me crazy, seeing as this would all be much less creepy if you were actually dead, which you're not, which kind of makes me really unfortunate and worrisome, but I can't help feel that if you were young and available right now we would be together.


But you're old and rather short, and have a very fuzzy head, and I can't say I'd ever want to be with a Richard, and you never take those sunglasses off anyways, so I've decided it's better that you're not young and single. Besides, I would probably try to get you to take off the gawdy jewelry, even though secretly, deep down, I love it.


Your smile wins oceans, Ringo.


I'm not exactly sure what that statement means, but when I figure it out, I'll be sure to let you know first.


Dear Ringo,


Octopus' Garden makes me happier than almost any other song, except for Hey Jude. I'm sorry, but my love for Hey Jude outshines even my love for you, dear one. Forgive me.


I also appreciate that you are more-than-slightly dim-witted. I appreciate that the song title "A Hard Day's Night" was birthed by one of your quintessential, and insanely lovable word misshaps.


As I stated earlier, you are perfect, Ringo.

Perfect to me.


Although, you really should stop smoking. And stop trying to smell the roses, that whole entourage of cheesy songs and solo failures really wounded your credability.


But I still love you.


And so, Dear Ringo,


Here's to a lifetime of favorites, mutual understandings (.... I'm sure if you actually knew me, this whole thing really would be mutual), and endless inspirations.


Thanks for always being there.