Today we write a birthday card to Luke Perry, the holy creator of our current romantic disillusion. What? Yes. Yes, Luke Perry is to blame for your bad taste in men. Luke Perry is the reason you only date assholes with drinking problems and cool cars (or less cool skateboards). Luke Perry is who you should raise that next bottle of wine you drink alone on your couch to, while tearing up to re-runs of Grey’s Anatomy (but not the one where they all sing because that one’s stupid). It’s thanks to Luke Perry that you’re still reeling from whatever handsome, un-evolved, brooding man (you mistook his quiet for depth, when really he was just kind of dumb) you last had the poor taste in choosing. Sure, there were GIANT RED FLAGS (he hits on your friends and your mom, he aggressively disregards the difference between “their” and “they’re”, he maybe cooks meth) and your friends tut-tutted you with their “you’re too good for him” and “he might be a sociopath” but what do they know, you’ve seen the guys they’ve dated, so many pots, so many kettles, so so much black.
Luke Perry, in the form of Dylan McKay, lurks in your mind, wearing a weathered leather jacket over a crisp white tank-top (it was the 90s, people) and guiding you toward the “bad boys” with a cigarette drooping from his beautiful lip. When you resist, Dylan McKay pulls down his Ray Bans, squints at you, and shakes his head with a smirk. He doesn’t actually say anything, because talking too much renders sexy brooding ineffective, but he does glower. Oh, how he glowers. And so you move on to the next exciting (immature), dangerous (high potential for STDs), free-spirited (broke) guy with a motorcycle and a dream. Or a bicycle and a band. Or a second cell phone and a wife. (You get the picture).
Because of Luke Perry, you spent your twenties chasing the ghost of Dylan McKay, never really understanding that he was sort of the worst person ever. So thanks a lot, Luke Perry. Thanks for all the split-checks, the letters from jail, and the years wasted on cool-looking douche bags. Happy effing birthday. I hope you currently have crabs.
PS: what?
So, so good. (And so, so true!)