To this day, just humming "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" in my head makes me want to get up and prance around. Not sway. Not even dance, but prance. Literally. Like a deer.

Wasn't that an awesome song? And then there's "I Want Your Sex" and "Faith." Oooooh man, that's a good one.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not avoiding the truth here. Yes, George made a little bit of a faux pas with that whole jerking off in the bathroom thing. Frankly, the public bathroom aspect grosses me out much more than the masturbating in public aspect (though I suppose I'd prefer a bathroom to a porn theatre -- ahem, Mr. Herman). But, his catalogue far outweighs his dirty deeds. Plus, right after that he released "Outside" and the video with the cops making out on the rooftop was awesome, and, okay, a little hot. Then I saw him on Oprah talking about how the love of his life died, and all I wanted to do was hug him and tell him it will be okay, if only because I love him.

Sure, the fact is that there was a time when George Michael wore hotpants and danced to his own pretty little beat in a group called Wham! For most girls this kind of activity may seem a bit off-putting, but to the world G.M. has always been as hot as they come. You can argue that for a long time he had that whole Prince ambiguosly-gay-I'm-not-telling-but-I'm-awesome-in-bed appeal.

But I believe there are several reasons for the attraction. One, the man is hot. There's really no denying it. Two, he's made some freaking catchy music, quality even. Fantastic stuff, and in my book that says probably much more than it needs to. Three, I myself am no stranger to the affliction of being attracted to someone who so obviously has no interest in me (not just because he's famous, that's just a minor barrier). So, to cure my soul of the pain that is life without George Michael, I'm sharing with you all a letter that I wrote to him. Needless to say, I'm still waiting to hear back.

Dear George Michael,

I don't guess, I know it would be nice to touch your body. Clearly not everybody has got a body like you. And no matter what disastrous thing Fred Durst does to your songs, or what kinds of gross, moldy public restrooms you find (oddly) appealing, you can always be my father figure (preferably in a non-incestuous kind of way). George, please wake me up before you go, go... on the Freedom 90, which will, in an ideal world, take me directly to your sex (parts I and II, of course). And, not to freak you out or anything, but this Christmas, I just might ... give you my heart.

Love,

Eugenia


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