Dear Emma (Watson),
I don’t know why I’ve been getting my hopes up. I told myself I wouldn’t. I guess I just thought that this new, cool blog might mean that I had I better chance at getting in contact with you.
But self-pity never gets anyone where they want to go, so I soldier on. I’m a helpless romantic – and there’s no better time to celebrate and accept that fact than now, on Valentine’s Day Eve. If you haven’t gathered I’m a helpless romantic by the letters I’ve written thus far, we’ve got a problem.
Anyway, I was searching the web for some Harry Potter news (don’t judge me) and stumbled across this post from our friends over at Mugglenet. Apparently you have lent your voice to the reading of some love poems for an app called The Love Book. The app will be released tomorrow on Valentine’s Day. According to the Mugglenet article, you loved the idea and were eager to read these love poems.
You like poems, huh? Not sure if you knew it, but I’m somewhat of an aspiring my poet. Yesterday I wrote a single millennial Valentine’s Day poem. Excuse the bitterness. I was mad at my Dating Machine for lying and telling me he set a date for you and I. Last week, I wrote a poem celebrating the work of my intern. Excuse the bitterness there, too. I was just upset that the intern is on pace to be better at my job than I am. Imagine if there was another Hermione on set who was just killing it. Actually, that scenario is not possible because it assumes someone could be better than you at anything.
I’m actually not a bitter guy at all. I’m pretty hopeful. I believe in the improbable. I believe in soulmates. I believe in a thing called love. I believe that sometimes the most unlikely scenarios are what we need.
Maybe I’m waxing poetic here because the 1980 U.S. hockey is on my mind with the tournament ramping up in Sochi. The team was chock-full of Boston University students, by the way. I believe in miracles, too. Sometimes I forget that. But I really do believe in the impossible.
That’s why I’m asking you out this Valentine’s Day. I’m headed to Washington, D.C., to visit the family tomorrow. I get in at 10pm. I know it’s last minute, and you probably have plans, but I’m rooting for the miracle. Plus, it’s a hell of a lot closer to London than L.A. and you have enough time to buy a last minute flight.
I’ll be waiting at the Washington Monument with a box of chocolates from CVS, a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s, two solo cups, and some fancy flower assortment from Whole Foods. Almost forgot, I’ve queued up a sweet Valentine’s Spotify playlist. It’s heavy on British bands.
There’s a 99.999% chance that you won’t show up and that I’ll end up pretty drunk after chugging the bottle of wine myself. Wouldn’t be the first time. But that’s okay. I live life for that 0.001% chance. I don’t just mean with you. I mean with everyone and everything. I believe in going for it and leaving everything you got on this earth before we perish.
I understand reality. I get that you and I will most likely never meet. I know I probably won’t win an Academy Award. I’ve come to grips that the Cubs might not win the World Series in my lifetime. But I believe that we have to believe. We’ve got to hope against all odds that things that we want might just happen. It’s how we get up each and every morning.
It’s like what Danny O’Shea said to cheer up his team at halftime in Little Giants. You’ve got to believe in that one time.
Hate that I had to use that clip far in advance of my Little Giants 90s movie review, but it’s the only thing that accurately portrays what I mean. Special people, jobs, and relationships come about because of exceptions. Because one time one person took a chance and said, “Fuck you, Kevin O’Shea. I’ll beat your Cowboys.”
Happy Valentine’s Day, Emma. Hope to see you tomorrow night at 11pm Eastern Standard Time in front of the Monument. If not, I’ll keep racing my bike down Cherry Hill every day because I believe that one time I’ll win.
Billy Danny O’Shea K.