Several years ago, I wrote the first in a series of posts to my television husbands, this one to Vincent D’Onofrio, where I divorced him for having the audacity to impregnate someone else. This of course, was shortly after I’d popped out crotch parasite numero dos, Alejandro, and blatantly overlooked that I had recently had a baby that hadn’t been presumably sired by him.

I also frequently called myself the “anonymous Midwestern girl with kicky hair” which should have told anyone that I didn’t take myself SERIOUSLY. The letter was, of course, a total over-the-top joke. I had to Google his fucking name to even write the damn thing.

But after I wrote it, my tens of readers laughed, because writing a fake love letter to a fake TV husband is kinda funny (shut up) and then an odd thing happened: Google Reader picked the damn thing up as in, “if you like, “xxx” you’ll LOVE “yyy””

THEN the Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio showed up on my doorstep. I’m not talking about people who have some Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck So Hard on DVR, no, I’m talking about the people who have entire BLOGS devoted to him. Who know his wife’s name (he’s married?) and paint murals of him on their walls.

They were *ahem* displeased with Your Aunt Becky.

And I was shocked that so many people could devote so many hours a day to caring about celebrities. It just hadn’t dawned on me that anyone, well, WOULD.

I still get people who swing by and yell at me about it, just like the teens who yell at me on Twitter for misspelling David Archuleta’s name. Not, oddly, that I said “I thought about buying David Archuleta’s book until I realized he’d been a Barbizon Model and then punched myself in the face.”

(I’m bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me take Glamor Shots and for some reason I have my wires crossed and Glamor Shots = Barbizon = Be a Model, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

But now, I’ve realized that my true love is not Vincent D’Onofrio, Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio, so you can all back off.

Because after years of searching, I’ve finally found The Love of My Life:

Rod Blagojevich’s Hair: (he’s the former governor of Illinois, where I live. State Motto: We Impeach our Crooked Governors! He’s also…just…wow.)

When we met, I was immediately smitten. Sure, politics aren’t my thing, but the hair, people, THE HAIR.

His magic hair and I went for long walks on the beach, looking at rocks, rotting fish and hypodermic needles.

And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, his hair took me for a long romantical visit to Detroit, where, over fried chicken and waffles and cans of Diet Coke,  his hair asked me to be it’s bride.

The day I married his hair was the happiest day of my life. My dad walked me down the aisle to strains of “Dude Looks Like a Lady” and when I met his hair at the alter, I promised to “Love, Honor and Repay” his hair for the rest of my days on Earth, til baldness (or Rogaine) do us part.

His hair just floated there, like a mystical being from another planet while I beamed serenely. My heart was finally happy.

His magic hair completed me.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

9 months later, the product of our Magical Union, the sweet Hair Baby baby popped out of my crotch.

The day I had his hairs’ baby, well, that was the second happiest day of my life. Second only to the day I became, Mrs. The Magic Hair Blago.

Of course, a mystical being like Blago’s Magical Hair can’t be contained for long, so I’ve been left to raise our Love Child alone, but that’s okay. I’m lucky to have had his Magic Hair for as long as I did.

If you love something as special as Magic Hair, you have to let it go to be free. If it comes back to you, it was always yours.

Or…uh, something.

Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,

I fell for you when I was a crazy pregnant loon, and I learned that plugging myself into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with anyone over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my inability to move without waddling.

I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly round 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 hemorrhoids “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.

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,’ 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!

How COULD YOU?

I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, in between arranging my socks and shaving my cats, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend: Anthony Bourdain.

Okay, okay, so I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook,” I can hear you laugh, my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t be in the same room with.

You might even say to me, “Now Aunt 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 look, there’s a pube in my drink,” ONTO MY TELEVISION. I care about that very much.

As you should 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 the key to my heart (like hot dogs!)(and bacon!).

I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.

With Former Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),

Aunt Becky

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.