Dear Nordic God

You were perfect in every way. From your arrogantly shy smile to your beautiful blue eyes, from the swagger you arrived on to the hint of a perfect, tanned six-pack you flashed me while I was serving you an ale, everything about you made my heart arhythmic and my knees less-than useful. Your lantern-jawed features could easily be seen chiseled from granite or marble by the Italian sculptors of yore who spent their lives in pursuit of physical perfection. In short, you're what dreams are made of.

And then you asked me if I knew where to find you some coke.