[Ed. note: *swoon*]
My beloved PicMonkey,
Must we keep this wretched secret? It has been scarcely a fortnight since our dinner at the harbor, and already I find my very soul aflutter with longing for you—your smile, your glow, your sophisticated array of powerful, yet surprisingly affordable, photo editing tools.
How I adore your effects (O, PicMonkey, tell me you remember and, dare I dream, match my adoration). Their realness and texture call to me, begging to be savored in both sight and touch, like the auburn locks that linger above your brow. I know this sounds foolish—the laws of decency (and physics) prevent me from actually touching your graphics or filters!—but such is the power of your charm.
I offer my love with endless hope that you will take it; also, that you’ll pay me back for dinner the other night. You have touched up my heart, you have changed my life, and your Sweethearts theme is beyond compare. For that, I am truly—
PS – Seriously though that dinner was like $80.