Dear Joe, 
 YOU are more than I bargained for when I read the blurb from your publisher and agreed to accept the perk from Klout and let them mail me a hardback copy. I admit it, and you'll hate me for it, but I'm a Kindle girl. Still, I waited by the mailbox for the book to arrive while checking out your author, Caroline Kepnes, on Twitter. Did you know she gushes about you as if you were hers? 
 When YOU finally arrived from Atria after waiting a whole three days, in which Caroline tweeted about you at least twelve times, I smelled your pages, fingered the long forgotten texture and approved of the USPS for getting you safely to my house without a ding nor scratch. Then, you spoke. I guess I had a reason after that for forgiving Caroline. I'd gush too if I had written YOU. 
 Oh, Joe, how can I say it without you assuming I'm a crazy stalker with far less tact and way more guile? YOU were simply wonderful. You took me into your head, into your world, and I became YOU while you became Beck. 
 This wasn't a romance, as some are trying to classify YOU, as if you fit within a different genre on the shelf than the one I made for you. Though, you did love her. Not as much as I love YOU, though. The wood splinter in my finger from that effing shelf proves it. 
 But, as with all wonderful things, I knew YOU wouldn't last. It had to end. I had to eventually finger that last page, rubbing along its grain in a caress goodbye. It's not a sad farewell; we'll always have red ladles and IKEA and peach-is and effing Dan Brown and Caroline's twitter account, after all. 
 Oh, and one last thing before I put you down (this time), watch that Amy chick, because I'm watching you and she's a klepto who will steal your heart and she could never understand what we've been through together. These pages. This book. YOU.