A love letter to Raymond “Ray” Stantz
Dear Raymond Stantz,
I don’t mind if you thought of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
Stay Puft, Marshmallow Man. Stay Puft.
I love you.
I love you for your ghostbusting skills. I love you for your ability to call the Book of Revelation “Revelation” and not “Revelations,” because holy cow, does that drive me nuts. I love the way you know about ghosts and parapsychology and how you kind of look like Dan Akroyd.
I'm sorry, I meant: EXACTLY like Dan Akroyd.
You’re the heart of the Ghostbusters, Ray, and I’d like you to be my heart.
Wait, that doesn’t make sense.
What I’m saying, Ray, is I’d like to take you out for dinner, a quiet little Italian place maybe, and we could have white chocolate raspberry cheesecake for dessert if they have it, or quietly complain about how they don’t have white chocolate raspberry cheesecake for dessert if they don’t.
I like white chocolate raspberry cheesecake is all.
And then, Ray?
Well, I’d like to take you home and keep you.
On my shelf of "collectibles, not toys, dammit," preferably.
You are such a little cuddle bear.
(Oh, and Ray? By “take you home and keep you,” I actually meant “something that involves handcuffs and maybe a proton pack, if we’re feeling especially naughty.”)
(Don’t cross the streams, baby.)
(Or do, I guess.)
Cross the streams, don't cross the streams -- it's hard to remember which one destroys the universe and which one saves it.
Anyway, Ray, the next time someone asks you if you’re a god? You can say “yes,” because, baby, you’re the god of my heart.
(Crap, that still doesn’t make sense.)
I love you! And marshmallows! We’d be great together. Call me!
Although I guess I could call you, like the song says to and all.
