Nancy, sweet Nancy—the heart and soul of my existence. I would say you are the wind beneath my wings, but using such a contrived cliché to explain our love would make me vomit blood. You are not mere wind under silly bird wings, or I suppose bat wings or angel wings. You are a concussive force of destruction, 300mph winds that could drive straw through a brick wall.

It’s no joke, Nancy. My love for you is so strong I sometimes feel like it will overcome me. I am not unlike Frodo, carrying a burden too big for such a small insignificant midget to handle, continually tempted and in danger of being overwhelmed by the power of the one true ring that is your love. All of that describes my affection for you, except for the implied evil I may not have ruled out quick enough.

Yours is no simple love I could slip in my back pocket and forget about, least of all because it is not a real tangible object. Your love is constantly on my mind, except for when I’m at work or in the bathroom, and it occupies my every other waking thought. That’s got to be a good 65% of my day.

No, our love, mine for you and you for me, though I have yet to see a column expressing yours in such a way, our love is the strongest force nature has ever known. If it were a knife it could split open the earth to its very core and allow the hot magma within spill out into space. It would have to be a big knife, of course, but that’s basically implied. It is a love more powerful than anything ever covered on the weather channel, even tornado hail.

If our love were funk, the whole world could get down to it. It would blast through speakers and rattle every window on earth, as if booming from a 2,000-mile long lowrider.

I am thoroughly convinced our love is the strongest thing in the universe, like the Hulk arm-wrestling Mr. T. It is like the pungent smell of paint thinner and that perfume you bought from Lazarus that one time, you remember which one—you kept complaining you couldn’t get it off for a week. It is more than that powerful. But this is all good, because who wants an average love? A textbook love, with boring pictures like Leave it to Beaver’s parents. You ever notice how they slept in separate beds? What was going on there?

Yes, I don’t exaggerate to say our love may be the biggest thing the universe has ever known. Or perhaps I do, just a little, but our love is well worth embellishing, it is that cherished to me, and probably you—haven’t heard a lot in response lately. But our love is so good, we don’t need to parade it around town like our neighbor with his convertible Chrysler. Ooo, I’m Jack Hamilton, I can afford a convertible, well, who cares, Jack? Your love with that girl who comes over on Friday night is only Friday-night love, and I have a love so strong in can occupy 8 days in the span of only 7. I’m not sure how exactly it works, if it squeezes extra seconds in-between or adds the extra hours at the end of the day, but it does just that.

Unfortunately, our love is susceptible to lying. Not my lying, because I swear I thought those earrings were real diamonds when I bought them off the guy. We both totally got taken. But I don’t expect you to simply take me back on the basis of my proclamation here, I just want to get together and you can hear my side of the story. It was a pretty shitty Valetine’s Day for me, too, Nancy, having to sleep in my car because you got more than a little pissed off. Still, I don’t hold a grudge, and you’ve had time to realize some of those things you said about my penis were quite out of line. Truce?