Dear Adrien Brody:
I love you. I’ve loved you since I first saw you in The Pianist. When you looked out from your Nazi-ravaged apartment and directly into the camera, we had a moment. I’d swear on all that’s holy that we did. I write this letter to you with a heavy heart and a burning pit that resides in the depths of my stomach, for I fear that I’m going unnoticed by you as of late.
And now. Now I hear rumors that you’re dating January Jones and I have to ask: what’s the appeal? Why not me, Adrien? Oh, the things that I would do to you (and for you!) had I the chance. I could take you around the block and show you the world all in one jaunt more than a few times. If you’re looking for a long-term relationship, I’m your girl; I’m married. What type of woman knows how to
force a make a relationship last other than one who’s married? If it’s a quick sexual fling that you’re into, I campaign to be your first choice. I could show you things that I’m willing to bet you’ve never seen (uh, guaranteed) before.
But January Jones, man. January Jones. She’s the chick that was supposed to be banging Jeremy “Cause of Death: Undercooked Fish” Piven. And she was hooking up with Ashton Kutcher at one point and he was known for screwing some pretty smarmy, easy chicks. She even dated crazy-eyed Josh Groban. Yeah, she’s probably appealing in that she’s “eclectic” sort of way ’cause she likes a strange blend of dudes that’d rival mixing espresso and lime juice or whatever, but count me unimpressed.
Anyway, I implore you to lay off the skinny, horse-faced blonde. She’s not for you, Adrien, and I’m not saying this because I fervently want to solicit your penis and eventually, your burning, mutually-undying love; I’m saying this because I want you to be happy in a way that only I know how to induce. Not that skinny, horse-faced January Jones.
I wish you luck, Adrien, but no other woman could love you like I would.
I’m totally going to see Predators, even though I’m sure it’s going to suck. Doesn’t that gesture itself speak volumes?