Tip Our Hats: Guys That Listen to Ryan Adams

I don't care that he has a messy bedroom, that he defaulted on his student loans, or that he has an expired driver's license. I don't care that he's still baffled by how Twitter works or that he drinks all the fancy vodka that I hid in the freezer and thinks that I won't notice. (I totally do.)

I don't care about his blurry, jokey tattoos that are already half-faded because he doesn't give a shit about wearing sunscreen. I don't care that he has an overflowing ashtray next to his bed and it looks like a chalky homage to Sideshow Bob's hair.

I don't care that he's mean to his vegan roommate and his preppy brother. I don't care that he has an off-brand cell phone with a loud polyphonic ringtone that always seems to die right when I want to hear from him most. And, I don't even care that his comforter has a distinct, pungent sour smell like a french fry wrapped in a gym sock that's been buried in a basement.

Once I sink into his couch as he plays the "Heartbreaker" record over his living room stereo, I'm all his.