Dear Miranda July,
I used to think you were terrible but now I think you’re wonderful. Amazing even. I was quick to judge you probably because I was jealous of your success. Your latest film, The Future, really showed me that you weren’t screwing around though. Like I couldn’t just hate you because it was easy. You were making important work, you were a refreshing voice, and I needed to respect that. Your new book, It Chooses You, is a great companion piece to the film. I’ve been reading it the past few days and it’s making me feel lots of things, which is always a good sign. I also liked your cover story in Paper. I can’t believe you’re like 36! Anyway, you’re great. Sorry I ever doubted you. Bye.
Dear Jessica Biel,
WHO ARE YOU? No, but seriously. I just don’t understand you at all. I remember you being on the cover of Vogue once and even the interviewer was like, “Yeah. Your career’s been kind of a joke. What’s up with that?” And you were like, ‘IDK. I’m just a homebody, you know?” Honestly, if you hadn’t latched on to one of the most famous penises in Hollywood, you would’ve just faded away along with Mary Camden. So good job with that, I guess. Also, why does it always look like you’ve rolled around in the dirt?
Dear Joseph Gordon-Levitt,
You. Oh, you. I know your type — the cute, smart, indie guy who wants to show you his favorite Pavement record and talk about Bukowski and you’re just like, “Can we make out now?” He’s so dreamy and making out with him feels fine and he probably even has a huge dick. (The cute, smart ones always surprise you. I once hooked up with the nerdiest twig who went to Berkeley and his penis was stunning. It should’ve been his thesis.) But, for some reason, you never want to see them naked. You just want to marry them and have two twin-sized beds like I Love Lucy. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is so the dude you want to make out with, marry, and have babies with but only by some form of immaculate conception. If it’s worth anything, I did want to bone him in Mysterious Skin when he played a gay teen hustler but that’s more of like a personality defect on my part.
Dear Mary-Kate Olsen,
where r u? where r u? where r u? How many times must I write about you before you just magically appear in my apartment and say, with your stoner Valley girl drawl, “Let’s go on an adventureeeeee!” Oh my god, I would go ANYWHERE with you. I mean, I know your definition of adventure means calling your dealer and going to the bodega for a Luna bar but I don’t care. I’ll then come back to your industrial loft space near the Hudson and braid your hair and listen to you talk sh-t about Ashley (“It’s like she gets it but she doesn’t get it, you know?”) and then maybe we would watch some boring art film on Xanax and pass out to the credits of Full House. Ugh. Heaven. And to certain people, hell, I’m sure.
Dear Mark Ruffalo,
You are so attractive. And I truly admire your willingness to be naked in almost of all your films. That really means a lot to me. Emotionally, spiritually, and physically. You seem like the kind of dude who’s nude all the time anyway. You give me a strong hippie vibe. Like you’re probably smoking a blunt naked right now in your treehouse in Laurel Canyon. Take me there, Mark. I wanna go there.