Dear Robert Pattinson,
You've fucking ruined my life. Allow me to explain.
As if puberty wasn't tough enough.
As if shopping in drag-stores at the tender age of 13 for ladies shoes that only burly men could fill wasn't awful enough.
As if sleepovers didn't inspire enough anxiety when my girlfriends would lend me a baggy tank to sleep in, and after sliding into it, gawking at the thong-like coverage it offered me. Or when they would stay over my place, I would try to beat the odds by offering my most form-fitting tee, and wanting to fade into thin air when they would change into what looked like a moo-moo on them.
As if being sprinkled with volcanic acne colonies on my face, all the while donning an "I <3>
As if the memory of ripping a loud one during silent reading in 10th grade and blooming into a siren-colored mess, alarming the class "IT WAS ME IT WAS ME" doesn't still send me into panic attacks.
As if phoning 411 for phone numbers to businesses and having them respond with a "Is this what you're looking for, sir?" didn't make my stomach turn into sailors knots.
ROBERT, I HAVE BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH, ALREADY. Jesus Christ. Like, is that not fucking enough?
I thought I made adamant strides toward being a respectable adult. Balancing two jobs, earning my keep, taking risks and turning out the victor in many challenges in my life. You have retroactively ruined my growth.
Here's now what a typical day is like: Hello New York City subway! Hey business women and men, intensely studying the New York Times - you, with your intent to inspire and change the world - here I am, like a psychotic 13-year old death-gripping the Twilight book, one-inch from my face, as my eyes dart left to right, LIKE I DON'T ALREADY KNOW WHAT FUCKING HAPPENS from watching this movie on a daily fucking-embarrassing basis. IT'S ME, just reliving all the moments that made me turn into cartoon-form, with bulging eyes, smoke steaming from my ears, jaw dropping to the floor, tongue unraveling into a 27-foot red carpet, all the while omitting weird noises like "AWOOOOOGGAAA", foot gyrating at a steady pace, panting like a starved dog - which was every time you walked into frame.
It's not entirely your fault. I blame my friend. She knew my weakness. She knew I wall-papered my room in Taylor Hanson posters when I was a tween. I was Lindsay Lohan and she had invited me into a coke den. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was adult-like and innocent. And there she came, Twilight in hand, forcing it into my DVD player. I remember ridiculing her: "Ugh, what is this, some Harry Potter Hannah Montana bullshit - UGHHHHH". And from the moment your character entered the shot, my integrity shriveled to the size of pea. I knew. I uh-ohed out loud, knowing that I had set my dignity on fire. Later I found out that you were a musician and like a ravenous lion, gobbled up everything I could read or listen to with you in it. EVEN ADMITTING IT ON THE INTERWEB MAKES ME CRINGE WITH EMBARRASSMENT.
This is a good one: remember the time that I was scrambling for my wallet in front of my adult coworkers - and OOPS, there's my copy of fucking j-14, with the Miley Cyrus giving tweenAmerica a huge thumbs-up on the back. THANKS A FUCKING LOT, ROBERT.
Or what about the time that I was in my room singing no, SHOUTING the indecipherable lyrics to one of your shitty-recordings that someone taped from the back of a loud club - I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING? Is it English? The language of angels? I CANNOT TELL - but I moan all the intonations at the top of my lungs, like it was the poetry of Shakespeare of the wisdom of Ghandi.
How about the time I slouch into a goon late at night and fetal-position myself in front of my laptop to watch YOUTUBE MONTAGES of you set to Monica's "Angel of Mine"? That's not enough?
Or how about when I watch Twilight and half-smirk some asshole comment when Kristen Stewart comes onto screen like "whatever, she's not even that cute."
Or what about when I phone my mom to notify her that I have found my soulmate - AND I SEND HER A LINK TO THE MONTAGE. How's that. How does that make MY MOTHER FEEL, Robert? Probably not too great about her adult-daughters future.
You have made me second guess my growth into adulthood. I had this thing down pat. I can watch Brad Pitt and George Clooney with the best of them and sigh occasionally. Entertain the occasional day-dream, but that's it. I don't throw their name around in conversations regarding what I'm doing later that night.
My real-life friends have real-lives. How's am I going to find a man, now? Fuck you for making every man that exists in this world look like a kindergarden school girl. Thanks for BEAMING with talent, making everyone's feeble attempts at being good at at least ONE thing look silly and desperate. Just fucking relax a little.
