Dear Glen,
I love you. I've loved you since I was a sheltered little Cuban-American 14-year-old girl experiencing her first taste of damn awesome music. Before 14, it was all crap: pop drivel and heavy metal. But then I discovered Toad the Wet Sprocket (along with a few other bands), and my life changed.
You changed everything, Glen. Listening to Fear did something to me: made me sad and euphoric all at once, brought out the poet in me, put me in touch with my melancholy and made me feel like someone else understood.
You tapped into something deep inside me, Glen. With each and every album, I was more and more convinced that you knew me, that you understood me, that you might yearn for the same things I did.
Glen, you don't know how much I love you; how much I've loved you all these years, following you through Toad to your solo work.
But I have to know, Glen: why the hell don't you ever play a gig down here? It kills me. One gig. One little gig in Miami. That's all.
With much love now and always,
Me