welcome back, brotha

Dear Henry Ian Cusick (aka Desmond on Lost),

I've missed you, brotha. It's been eight months since your Scottish brogue filled my senses with naughty thoughts. The only thing that has sustained me since your panicked eyes peered into Charlie's and you realized the truth, was that you would one day return to me. Well, to me and millions of others who devote Thurday nights to Lost, but I think you're really just there for me.

Oh, and return to me you did, brotha. Glowing with sweat and sea, hair flowing, gun cocking. Rawr, brotha! R to the A to the W to the R! One glorious episode down, eight more to go unless this writer's strike resolves itself and you and the casteaways get back to work.

Would it embarrass you if I told you I was a little damp in the pants last night around 7:46 p.m. Central Time as I attempted to settle myself for your return? Don't be embarrassed, brotha (I call you Desmond when were in public, brotha. We'll keep what I call you in private just that - private. Tee hee!). I shushed my family, I turned the lights down and the volume up. I squirmed and settled. I tuned into to every possible little clue. You didn't disappoint me, brotha, and for that, I love you more.

I'm glad your back, Desmond. Oh, how I'll be thinking of you until I'll see you next week, brotha. You may be Lost, but you've found my heart.