Dear Sufjan Stevens,

    I hope you don’t remember me because that would mean one of several things. Either a) that I didn’t actually bother you by sweatily interrupting your conversation with that tall man in the camel jacket, or b) that I did bother you by deciding we should meet, but that you’re also a terribly forgiving person who is sympathetic to all the twenty-something Anglo-Saxon, Protestant dudes who think you’re a big effing deal, or c) that you’re forgetful, which works because then, hey—no harm no foul.