Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,
We’ve had a year together, and it’s been joyous, hasn’t it? I fell for you when the pregnancy hormones made me nearly impossible to deal with, and my husband learned that plugging me into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with him over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my copious toe hair.
I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly chubby actor almost as old as my father. They showed me pictures of you as Sgt. Pyle (which was a terrible name. Did you know that the Brits call hemmorhoids “piles”? You should have negotiated for a better name when you took that role. I’m just saying.) and as the bug from Men In Black, and I let it roll off my back like so many drops of water into the ocean of our love (or something).
As an avid People reader, I was shocked to learn that not only are you married, but your wife is having a baby. YOU ARE HAVING A BABY WITHOUT ME, and I don’t appreciate that one teeny bit, Vincent. Sure, we’ve never actually “met” in the most literal sense of the word, but that shouldn’t have stopped you from pining for some anonymous (but fabulous) midwestern girl (with bonus kicky hair!), AND NOT KNOCKING SOME OTHER LADY UP!
I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend for whom I can pine, someone who is honest about his wife and child but is snarky enough that I can overlook this weeny little detail: Anthony Bourdain.
I can practically hear you laughing through the miles when I say this, because, as you well know, I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook” as I’d imagine you’d say, with my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t touch with someone else’s mouth and stomach. You might even say to me, “Now Becky, you don’t even CARE about food,” and you would be correct, I don’t. But I do care very much that he can work the phrase “Oh, there’s a pube in my drink” into television. I care about that very much.
As you know, Vincent, “pube” and “moist” are two of my favorite unintentionally hilarious words, and to hear him use one of those appropriately made me swoon with love. For him. Not you. Because the best that you can give me is acting like more of a lunatic and forgetting to shave your face, WITHOUT using either of those words, the words that are (partially) the key to my heart (like hotdogs!).
I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.
With Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),
PS. I hope that your baby cries. A lot.
PPS. A quick internet search has led me to realize that many other people shared my love for you, and they make me feel quite gooshy (in a bad way) inside. They’re creepier than me, right?
PPPS. Hope that you’re not getting any sleep with that new baby.
So, who is YOUR most shameful crush? C’mon, I know I’m not the only person who has inappropriate crushes on weird celebrities.