I’m looking for ways to win Sydney Sweeney over. I thought about sending her flowers, but that’s far too conventional. I looked into the price of a Times Square billboard, but these days any idiot advertises there. I wrote her a poem, but tossed it into the fireplace because it was unbearably corny; only I would try to rhyme love with fudge or glance with marzipan.

I’ve also considered the pragmatism of love — meaning, asking Jonathan Davino directly how he managed it — but I’m not sure he’d be willing to collaborate with me. Ex-boyfriends these days are strangely unwilling to play matchmaker for their ex-girlfriends.

I read that, in ancient times, lovers showed their devotion by sending each other locks of hair. But I wouldn’t want Sydney thinking her secret admirer is a hairless cat. I suppose I could dedicate an entire column to her, inviting her on a date, but I tried that once with Jana Hocking and the result was catastrophic: her blatant indifference still stings.

Anyway, I don’t want a date with you anymore, Jana; my eyes are only for Sydney now. Your time’s up. I’m sorry you missed your chance to meet the greatest sex symbol in national journalism — a pot-bellied sex symbol suffering alarming hair loss, but a sex symbol nonetheless. I hope you’re happy now with Charles Gasparino, Adam Brodsky, Douglas Murray, or whoever else writes for the Post.

Back to my platonic love: in France and Italy, couples seal their affection by hanging padlocks on bridges. In Rome, they’ve had to reinforce more than one bridge to prevent them from collapsing under the weight of millions of locks.

As a tribute to Sydney, I’ve hung a padlock with both our names on a pair of jeans — very original, I know — but I’m not sure it’s enough to conquer the heart of the beautiful actress.

In the romantic-era courtship manuals I collect, they insist the best way to woo a lady is by serenading her under her balcony. I’ve tried it at her mansion in Summerland Key, but unless her security team opens the damn gate, I’ll need a sound system like the Rolling Stones use on tour just so she can faintly hear me from her bedroom — roughly three hundred million miles away from the estate’s entrance.

I could compose and record a song in her honor, but I’m trying to win her heart, not convince her to hire a team of hitmen to kill me.

I saw a TikToker perform a strange ritual to attract Brad Pitt: she put a piece of paper with his name on it inside a jar of honey. Even though my Christianity keeps me from believing in silly superstitions, I tried it with Sydney. She didn’t show up, obviously, but ants from the entire neighborhood did, because I forgot to close the jar.

I also put a small cardboard picture of her in my pocket, pierced by ten needles bearing my name, following an ancient ritual of the Gugu-gugu tribe. I don’t know whether she received any omens in her dreams, but I do know it’s very dangerous to sit down when you’re carrying ten needles in your pocket. The worst part was explaining the source of my testicular pain to the doctor. She looked at me, very seriously, and said: “Stabbing your testicles doesn’t seem like the best way to start a romantic relationship.” Thank you, doctor. I hadn’t thought of that.

I’m starting to lose faith in this love story. Maybe we should call it quits, Sydney. But every time I see her on television or read something she says, I fall in love all over again. I suppose you think it’s because of her obvious physical beauty — and yes, that plays a role. But what truly excites me is when Katherine Stoeffel tries to lecture her on moral superiority in GQ, urging her to retract her jeans commercial, and Sydney looks at her with that sweetness that can split you in two and tells wokeism to go to hell in the most elegant, sensual way we’ve ever seen: “I think that when I have an issue that I want to speak about, people will hear.”

Let’s admit it took a lot of work to tear down the wall of woke darkness that haunted us for years, but now we live in times of genuine beauty and happiness. Besides, I can’t imagine any way of being a man in this world without being profoundly in love with Sydney Sweeney.

And that’s all for today — I’m off to stalk her for a while, to see if I can decipher some secret wink in which she confesses her love for me. Or at least her sense of humor.

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