I love me a musician. Singers, to be specific.

There’s something just so inherently sexy about rock stars that weakens my knees and sends me all a-quivery. Not necessarily the Aerosmith/Rolling Stones/Any Major Band from the 80’s type (though Sting is definitely an exception), more of the Ben Folds/Lifehouse/Jackopierce variety.

Seriously, people, second to my asshole adoration affliction, the pattern is disturbing. They croon, I swoon.

I’ve always had a predilection for musicians – my ninth grade crush could play the piano, which I just thought was AMAZINGLY sexy in that way that sneaks up on you. I thought it was the appeal of having a ‘special talent’, but my adoration didn’t stop there.

Next, I was a quasi-groupie for a band called Third Wish, who even played my high school graduation party in a torrential thunderstorm like no other that caused the guests to wear my entire wardrobe during the mudfest acoustic session that later ensued. I can’t remember which of the guys I had a crush on, but suffice it to say it was more than one. I sigh just thinking about them.

The pattern continued into college, and apparently remains today. Give me a sexy lead singer (guitar playing only ups the stakes) and I’m transfixed. Enamored. Enchanted. It’s quite pathetic, actually, but it’s beyond my control.

Now, it’s not just being able to sing. Actually, a guy who will sing in the car for me, all proper and good-voiced, makes me think that he was in Show Choir in High School and thus needs to be hanging out with people of the Clay Aiken variety if you get my drift. I like my realistic men to sing like me – horrifically, but with gusto. But in fantasyland? Give me Jack O’Neil or Cary Pierce any day.

Which leads me to issue a formal apology or two:

Dear Mr. Security Guard,
I’m sorry I pushed past you in an attempt to break in backstage and stare adoringly at Jack O’Neil. You were correct in the fact that me having flirted with you earlier shouldn’t affect whether or not I could get backstage. And that ‘pass’ I said I had dropped in the toilet? Yeah. Didn’t exist.
Your Friend,
Aubrey

Dear Cary Pierce,
I’m really, REALLY sorry that you’re married. You’re smokin’.
Your Friend,
Aubrey

Dear Jack O’Neil,
I’m sorry that I tried to get backstage without a pass. You see, I really DID think that when you were pointing to the crowd, you were pointing at me. And when you sang that last song, I really DID think that you were looking at me. And I really DID think that you would want me to go back and kiss you senseless since you are the sexiest thing alive. I’m extremely sorry that I was mistaken about those facts, but even sadder that you COMPLETELY DENIED ME in front of the security guard when I said “Jack, tell him I can go back and hang out with you.” I suppose you didn’t know part of the reason I want to marry you is because my name would be Aubrey O’Neil O’Neil, but hey, now that you do? Next time, let me go backstage, and I’ll forgive you.

Oh, and one more thing…when you sing that song “Get to Know Me Better”, I hope you mean in the Biblical sense.

Your Lust-Ridden Fan,
Aubrey O’Neil O’Neil (I’m practicing)

PS: Did I mention that you’re the sexiest thing alive? I did? Ok. Just checking.