I can't believe Davy Jones died. I wasn't that sad about MJ or Whitney, but I am super sad about Davy Jones. I mean, it's always sad when someone dies, and I feel bad for the person's family and kids and whatnot, but this is different:


Davy Jones was going to marry me someday.


When I was in elementary school, Nick at Nite started playing reruns of The Monkees. I was hooked immediately. I was going to marry Davy, and my best friend Glo was going to marry Peter. As an adult, I think Mike Nesmith is much cooler, but that's beside the point. I had Monkees posters up in my room (none of my other friends got the appeal, so I'm pretty sure that contributed to my less-than-awesome reputation), and I listened to their records, especially Headquarters, on my Fisher-Price record player. I knew (still know) all the songs by heart and I even made up a dance routine to one of them.


I'm not saying which one, because I'm pretty sure that will lead to some fairly unbearable teasing around my house.


Needless to say, I kissed Davy's picture every night before bed, because I was just that doofy. I also had a fantastic English accent going on that I was going to use to fool him into thinking I was from Manchester, too, because somewhere along the line I became convinced that he'd only marry another English person. I decided that it was fate when I found out he'd been a jockey, since that's what I wanted to be for a short period of time when I was eight or so (I hadn't yet realized how small jockeys have to be).


So, yeah, a little crazy for Mr. Jones (Davy, not the old man who used to live across the street from us, even though he was awesome, too). I suppose life will go on, and I know I still have Severus Snape (did I mention I'm marrying him someday, too?), but it's pretty sad.