Me and the boy with the aubergine hair travel the world with only three cares; one is of money, two is of time, and three is the tragedy that you are not mine

Dear Man,

For the last dozen or so years I have been told by many people, all of different relationships to me, that you are out there. When I had my heart broken in Australia, I consoled myself with the thought that he wasn't you, he wasn't the one I was looking for, and that this was all part of the journey to get to you. Back in NZ, when Tall, Dark And Handsome But Unfortunately A Complete Twat showed his true colours, I realised that you weren't him. I arrived in America, and thought as an added bonus perhaps I might find you here. So far, no such luck. I have met Emotionally Retarded and Really Hot But A Bit Of A Wanker, thankfully I managed to avoid any sort of involvement with either of them.
(Then there's Nice Guy Who Fancies Me But I Don't Fancy Back, and of course every girl knows Mindbendingly Hot But Taken.)

The last thing I want you to think is that I spend all my time thinking about you, or that I cover my face in make-up every time I leave the house, just in case I see you. I know that you will love me for more than my red hair, incredibly long legs and impressive rack. You'll love the fact that I'm a bit clever, and a bit unpredictable, and that I talk to myself. You won't mind that my nose is wonky from where I broke it, and that I'm a food snob and that I drink too much wine, and that I don't have a flat stomach. You'll agree with me that stupid people should be sterilised, and will completely understand the brilliance of both Fat Freddy's Drop and Interpol.

However, I must confess, Man, that I am beginning to get a little impatient. Its been a while now, and I'm beginning to think that perhaps all those people who told me about you were telling me pork pies.
Sure, I know I'm busy, what with this pesky PhD thing I've got myself involved in, and I know that I'll probably be jumping from one country to another for the next couple of decades, but occasionally when everything goes tits-up it would be nice for someone to be here to listen to me rant in the middle of the night and sometimes in the winter when its cold and dark and I'm bundled up in my bed watching crappy science fiction movies, it would be nice if there was someone to share the scotch with.

I'm just saying, that's all.