Dear Phil Collins,

You are a god. Which makes sense because you were in a band called Genesis. I bet you planned it that way, you saucy minx.

Phil, you need to know how much you’ve been an integral part of my life. “Another Day in Paradise,”  “True Colors,” “Against All Odds,” “A Groovy Kind of Love,” these were the songs that were the soundtrack of my life. They were also part of a mix tape I titled Soundtrack of My Life.

I remember our first meeting so well. After my babysitter locked me in her 1985 Saturn to dissuade kidnappers, making sure to roll up the windows so I wouldn’t choke on the 100+ degree heat that burns, while making sure the air-conditioning was turned off “in case of asbestos,” I was left to muse to soft rock. Suddenly, your crooning, glorious vocals on “I Can’t Dance” soothed my sweaty ears. Sure my babysitter left her boyfriend’s house with a generous hickey, but I emerged from that Saturn a woman.

When all the other angsty teens had The Cure, I had “I Wish It Would Rain Down” and “Take Me Home,” of course no boy ever wanted to take me home, what with the over-bite and coinciding headgear, but I knew you would always want to cop a feel. Only the British can truly appreciate the je ne se quoi of severely maligned teeth.

I even gave a report about you in college. For my history class it was called, “Marxism and ‘Sussudio'” and for Biology it was “In The Air Tonight’: Fact or Fiction?!” A classmate was so intrigued by my knowledge; she took out her compact and picked at the bottom of her teeth with her forefinger. Then she smelled her finger. Gross.

But you’re not gross, Phil! My Phil. Philly. Philicious. I think I’ve actually run out of ways to express myself to you, so I made you a Valentine:

<3

Call me!

Eileen

———-

Seriously Phil, why haven’t you called me?