Dear John Squire:
I love you. You are fabulous. I have even forgiven you for not marrying me when you were in The Stone Roses and making me pregnant like 800 times. I know we have never met, but THAT’S NOT THE POINT, JOHN SQUIRE. Ahem.
Anyhoo, in spite of my undying love, it has come to my attention that life has been far too good to you.
For example, you can play guitar like this:
You create art like this:
And finally, your hair looks like this:
OK, in all fairness, this was in 1990 when you were around 26 years old. Let’s check back in with you in 2003.
Still looking good. How about last year?
OMFG, John Squire, you are almost 50 years old. I know teenagers that don’t have hair this good.
Therefore, it has been decided that you must relinquish one of these gifts to me immediately. I’m waiting.