Dear Bruce: I’m so sorry. It kills me to do this. But I love you, and I know you’d want me to tell the truth as I see it deep in my heart. So as wonderful as you are, as much as I admire you, as much as I still love to dance and drive to your songs, I’m afraid that makes me old.
It seems like just yesterday — though it was 1975 — that I first saw you onstage in Milwaukee singing Born To Run. You were so sexy, I went out with a guy in my writing class solely because he looked like you. Much more recently, I saw you shopping for earrings in Barney’s with Patty, who was much more gorgeous in real life than in pictures. I thought you still looked pretty hot. Though a lot less hot than you looked in 1975.
Don’t worry, Bruce, I’ll keep in touch. I’ll still (secretly) buy your albums, or download your songs, or whatever it’s called these days. I’ll still dance (alone) to Born To Run. But in public, I’m going to have to act like I don’t know you, okay?