How do you cheat on the man-child of every peri-menopausal woman's dreams?
Fact: He has a British accent which makes him seem much smarter than you.
Fact: He's in on the joke of his fame while you take yourself way too seriously, like Mary Queen of Scots. And just look where that got her. Thock! Sound of the executioner's axe.
Fact: His stubble can be used for exfoliation and skin cell turnover when rubbed briskly against the face while you've yet to develop any detectable whiskers. But you will, my young one. Oh, how you will.
Watching Robert nervously lick his cup of Ben & Jerrys while dodging Jon Stewart's probing questions last night made cougars across the world quite angry with you. We didn't have boyfriends like Robert in college. No, our boyfriends didn't have British accents (unless we lived in Britain), they weren't so preternaturally gorgeous, they had no clever turns of phrase and were certainly incapable of charming self-deprecation. And I quote Rob:
I have so much residue crap in my hair from years and years of not washing it and not having any sense of personal hygiene whatsoever. Even today, I go into these things where I'm supposed to be this sexy guy or whatever, and I'm literally asking, 'If I get plumes of dandruff on me, can you just brush it off?"
"I'm, like, a compulsive eater. I'm going to be so fat when I'm older, it's ridiculous."
I'd cook for Robert. Lamb braised in cow livers, agnolotti di fungi and a serving of breast milk on the side. What have you served him but cuckoldry and heartache?
What's that you say? You're only 22. Was I responsible in love at 22? Well. Yes. If you don't count that one married man. It was a "momentary indiscretion," okay? And I was the fourth scene partner in acting class he'd seduced.
What's that you say? Most people get to grow up and be assholes in private. Their growing pains aren't broadcast for the world at large. Let's get this straight, you're seeking fame pity? You're just a young girl figuring it all out, except you have to do it in the public eye? What if it was one of my daughters loathed across the Internet?
You're not going to get me by appealing to my maternal side. Yes I know I'm old enough to be your mother, but that's beside the point. I don't like your mopey mouth. I don't like your gloomy face. You're shy, you say? You don't know who to trust. You feel isolated and humiliated?
(Big sigh) Alright. Here's what I suggest. Stop reading open letters to you. People love to anonymously tear public figures down. Seek wise counsel. And don't be so hard on yourself. This too shall pass. xo A Maternal Figure.
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