I need you to know, from the bottom of my heart, with all the strength I have in my body, how little I care about Harry’s overall popularity.
I could be the only person in the entirety of Wembley all six days of his concert, and I would stand ten toes down, head held high, bopping to Aperture on loop.
I’m posting this mostly for posterity, for the moment when the tide flips (because it alway, always, always does) and people begin to see the vision, because it always happens. It happened with the floral Gucci suit. It happened with the long hair. It happened with SOTT. It happened with AIW. It happened with Harry’s House. Complaints on complaints on complaints about how he’s lost his touch, how he’s not as handsome as he used to be, how his sound is too different, how he’s trying so hard, how he’s in his flop era.
And then suddenly the madness! the tears! the desperation to get tickets! the insistence that you’ve loved this version of him all along! ALL WE WANT IS ANOTHER HS DISCO DANCE SUMMER! COME BACK MY LOVE!! I GET IT NOWWWWW!!!
And when it comes, you better bet your ass I’m going to reblog this ask over, and over, and over, and over with every new record he breaks, and every new award he wins.
And if that doesn’t happen? If he is in his flop era? If he finally, finally, finally becomes an obscure indie artist that no one wants to listen to? Catch me at Wembley, alone in the front row, relieved I didn’t even have to think about taking a day off from work to queue for tickets for once in my goddamn fangirl existence.