Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. On this slushy Valentine’s Day, where, face it, you really don’t want to venture out of the Gawker office, it’s time for a little tête-à-tête with you about your devotion to Matt Drudge.

O Jessica, as you kick through snow drifts on the mean streets of Manhattan, as you huddle on the subway platform with a thousand other wise guys with the same idea about coming out of the cold, do you imagine yourself on an island in Miami Beach, rubbing socks with the man who runs the most dangerous newsroom in America, gazing longingly at the best male lips in cyberspace? Do you imagine exchanging little love IMs, even though your computers are right next to one another, and actually – I know this is hard, Jess – getting an IM back?

Okay. So. What is this Drudge obsession? I mean, is he that dis-worthy? That newsworthy? What’s with this Matt Drudge Ignores Me Again pigtail-in-the-inkwell?

O Gawkette, I see a Rorschach pattern in this running gag. As Matt Drudge ignores you, you ignore a piece of yourself.

I’m a Drudge scholar. What’s your excuse?

Jessica, I give him to you. I can’t deal with a guy who parks his seat in front of a keyboard 10 to 14 hours a day. And I sure as hell won’t be seen in public with someone who wears a tux-fedora ensemble at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. No, Jess, you are Matt’s bashert. The jig is up. It’s time to swallow your pride and confront your destiny.

See, I’m protective of him. I understand where he’s coming from. I analyze the philosophical implications of his actions, criticize him when he deserves it, but, well, shucks, Jess, I have his best interests at heart. I’m Matt’s gadfly, his apologist. (And I also know when a Gawker Stalker Drudge sighting is a false alarm.) But you, Jess, have another role. You’re his arm candy.

And as you know, Gawkette, the way to a man’s heart is to insinuate to every other woman in America that he’s a homosexual. Come on, kids. You’ve proven to each other that you’re hard to get. You’ve done the silent treatment gig. On this momentous occasion, it’s time to bury the hatchet in a frosty cuddle puddle.

Stay, snowy Valentine, stay.