Dear Jared Leto
You weren't very cool on "my so called life." I actually thought you looked a little bit like the hillbilly boy that ran over my cat when I was ten (later his older brother tried to french me on the playground, it got complicated, like all tragically doomed elementary school romances). To be honest I never really thought you were especially interesting or attractive (In fact the only recent thought I had related to you was "Yeah, he should never wear cornrows, his hair is way too straight for that."), and I don't really like most of the movies you've been in (there were a few I really liked, but Prefontaine...really? And Requium for a Dream...blarrrggggh!), but then something happened (can't pinpoint it) and suddenly I thought: "Woah, check out Jared Leto."
I secretly suspect my sudden and overwhelming attraction to you has everything to do with eyeliner; I have a fetish, don't judge me! I also suspect that it has something to do with my noticing that we have very similar eyes, and I am nothing if not a secret narcissist (ask me about my sole bi-encounter, it was much more akin to making out with myself, I was all: "Good goddamn, you're gorgeous" while knowing full well the girl looked weirdly like my good twin). I began to speak with my sister the other day about this new fan-crush, she said: "Well, of course you think he's hot." Apparently, I am the only person in the world who did not suspect that I found you attractive. How dare I keep such secrets from myself. Then again, how could I not know--you are, I suspect, like me: a post-retro-punk, pre-goth, gen x, skate-culture creative intellectual. I would bet money that we owned many of the same t shirts in the 90s (do you know where your "Boys Don't Cry" shirt is? I do. I wore mine to pieces and shoved it in a trunk with a pair of converse high-tops with holes worn in the bottoms.).
That said, pick some better movie roles so that I might better ogle you on the screen, I should never be forced to wade through American Psycho. Grump all you want, but you know, full well, that it is horribly contrived. And please stop with the ironic clothing, you and I are both too old for irony to apply to any of our fashion choices (I scoff at your Crocs...those are for old women, preschoolers and avid gardeners, you are--I hope--none of these). The thing about irony is that it needs some means of signifying its ironic nature; aka, we need roadsigns my friend...otherwise we're all just old sad dorks in a hot topic mock up.
Fuck, I need a new tattoo. Or some hair color. Both? I feel suddenly unwith. Oh, the business of love is cruelty. Goddamn I'm old.
Love,
Amanda
P.S. If you ever attempt to write a poetry book my long-distance adoration of you will cease faster than you can say "Me and Billy Corgan hang out sometimes." I don't try to act or sing, brother.
P.P.S. I've had this theory since "Siamese Dream" that Billy Corgan was truely as close to "genuine" vampire as the world might ever know (very Max Schrect), that theory was cruelly shattered when I realized that Billy Corgan is not only NOT a vampire, but is in fact a 15-year-old girl (prove me wrong...have you read his book? Insufferable. Jewel was better and she should be destroyed for her grammatical errors alone).
I secretly suspect my sudden and overwhelming attraction to you has everything to do with eyeliner; I have a fetish, don't judge me! I also suspect that it has something to do with my noticing that we have very similar eyes, and I am nothing if not a secret narcissist (ask me about my sole bi-encounter, it was much more akin to making out with myself, I was all: "Good goddamn, you're gorgeous" while knowing full well the girl looked weirdly like my good twin). I began to speak with my sister the other day about this new fan-crush, she said: "Well, of course you think he's hot." Apparently, I am the only person in the world who did not suspect that I found you attractive. How dare I keep such secrets from myself. Then again, how could I not know--you are, I suspect, like me: a post-retro-punk, pre-goth, gen x, skate-culture creative intellectual. I would bet money that we owned many of the same t shirts in the 90s (do you know where your "Boys Don't Cry" shirt is? I do. I wore mine to pieces and shoved it in a trunk with a pair of converse high-tops with holes worn in the bottoms.).
That said, pick some better movie roles so that I might better ogle you on the screen, I should never be forced to wade through American Psycho. Grump all you want, but you know, full well, that it is horribly contrived. And please stop with the ironic clothing, you and I are both too old for irony to apply to any of our fashion choices (I scoff at your Crocs...those are for old women, preschoolers and avid gardeners, you are--I hope--none of these). The thing about irony is that it needs some means of signifying its ironic nature; aka, we need roadsigns my friend...otherwise we're all just old sad dorks in a hot topic mock up.
Fuck, I need a new tattoo. Or some hair color. Both? I feel suddenly unwith. Oh, the business of love is cruelty. Goddamn I'm old.
Love,
Amanda
P.S. If you ever attempt to write a poetry book my long-distance adoration of you will cease faster than you can say "Me and Billy Corgan hang out sometimes." I don't try to act or sing, brother.
P.P.S. I've had this theory since "Siamese Dream" that Billy Corgan was truely as close to "genuine" vampire as the world might ever know (very Max Schrect), that theory was cruelly shattered when I realized that Billy Corgan is not only NOT a vampire, but is in fact a 15-year-old girl (prove me wrong...have you read his book? Insufferable. Jewel was better and she should be destroyed for her grammatical errors alone).