Pirates of the Buddhist Prayer Hands

September 7th, 2007 | 0 comments | Posted by Jen

Dear Johnny,

I’m not sure you realize this, but you’ve been my boyfriend for the last 23 years. I loved you from the moment you gave that impassioned speech in the police station in Nightmare on Elm Street. I saw your potential then, even through an itchy blanket I was using to shield myself from Freddie Krueger. I BELIEVED IN YOU. You were THE ONE.

I found you again during your 2-second cameo as a translator in Platoon. How many people even know you were in that movie? I not only loved you then, but I was in love with you. Okay, maybe, in hindsight, I was just grateful that you played the only character sympathetic to the plight of those poor Vietnamese peasants, PEOPLE LIKE ME, the ones whose village your platoon burned to the ground. But gratitude, love…quelle difference at that age?

And then there was Jump Street. Ah, Jump Street. I’m sure you don’t want to relive those three short seasons when you felt like a piece-o’-meat sellout on the best high school/crimefighting drama of all time, but I do. I was willing to overlook the fact that the four of you looked way too old for high school (I knew, because I was in high school at the time), just for the opportunity to be hypnotized once a week by that glorious downturned mouth and that impossibly lofty hair of yours.

I forgave you your other relationships. I suffered through Winona “The Retarded Girl from Lucas? What?!” Ryder, Kate “This is Why Girls Have Eating Disorders” Moss, and even Vanessa “Who the Fuck Is She and Why Does She Always Get to Wear Chanel Haute Couture?” Paradis, your current mistress. I embraced your pretension, your idol-worship of Hunter S. Thompson, your move to the South of France, and the nebulous spiritual persona you cultivated on your long journey to be taken seriously.

And the world, with which I begrudgingly share you, takes you seriously now. Even after you’ve made three movies based on a ride at Disneyland. I predict that you are about 4 years away from an Oscar. A FREAKIN’ OSCAR. Which is why I just don’t understand this:

Why, Johnny? You’re not even in Asia for chrissakes, you’re in Venice. Why do you choose to hurt me so?

I’m not sure I can forgive this.

I thought we were Forever,

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