Dear Stewart,

Hello, old friend, how are you?

I'm finding it pretty ironic that ever since I wrote this and accused Sting of not having a creative thought in his head anymore, I haven't had much to say, either. And I never ever wrote anything as good as "Roxanne" or "Bring on the Night" (or, to be fair, as heinous as "Englishman in New York"). Is "irony" the word I'm searching for here? No, seriously, is it?

See, I can't even do that anymore, whatever it was.

Anyway, I do, actually, have something big time cool to tell you, but I'm holding off. I'm holding off! Why the wait, you ask? (Well, I don't know, maybe you didn't/wouldn't ask such a question; you seem less like a question ask-er and more like a "I'm walking away until you make sense, woman" kind of guy.) Well, because that's just the way it's gotta be.

Maybe because yesterday I spilled the beans to someone else who is your exact age (4 days older, actually) and their response was less than favorable. I'm a little gun-shy, now, see?

Anyway, hold tight, okay? In the meantime, I plan on coming back at you soon with something both irreverent and worshipful, a combination at which I tend to excel.

Love you,
Irene