I'm your biggest fan! I know, being the famous country singer you are, you must get this a lot, but I really think we'd make a great couple. Sure, there's a bit of an age difference here. It's not like I could be your dad, but, hell, my baby brother is older than you and I have trouble thinking of him as an adult. Still, I think I can get past that. After all, I spend a lot of time thinking about the girls I didn't sleep with in high school (their choice, not mine) and, well, the fact that you look like a blond cheerleader could sort of help me make up for that. And hell, none of them could sing like you can. That bluesy redneck growl is special, just like you. My kind of special, Miranda.
Sometimes I lie awake at night making mental lists of all the reasons why you're special, too. Like last night, I realized we're the same person. Not literally. That would just be weird. But I think we've been burned by love all the same ("What About Georgia" says it all). Do you even believe in love anymore, Miranda? On "Kerosene" you sound so pissed. I mean, I've been pissed before. My ex did some fucked-up shit, sure, but I never threatened to light people on fire. Don't worry about it, though. I understand you. I'm here for you, Miranda.
Another one of my lists counts down all the reasons why you're better than that trailer-park diva Gretchen Wilson, even if a lot of the success that's come your way is due in part to the road she paved with crushed beer bottles. Then again, she had Big & Dumb and that trailer-park-wannabe Kid Rock to hammer her all the way to the top. You didn't have anyone hammering you, did you? (Except maybe Buddy Jewell, when you placed third on Nashville Star). You did it all by yourself, with those adorable little dimples of yours. Sure, Gretchen could thump you in a one-on-one, probably because you're not old enough to know how to fight with a broken bottle, but that genuine, gosh-golly innocence that radiates off of you will ultimately win you more fans, trust me. You won my heart. And you didn't have to act all cheap and whorish to do it, like Gretchen. Don't get me wrong, either; I'd completely do Gretchen. But with you, I think we could have something serious. Something real, Miranda.
P.S. Call me.
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