I love Meryl Street.
No. Seriously...I kind of want to marry her. And we could live on a small ranch in North Dakota while I raised her children (Who cares if they're about my age? Demi Moore never had that problem).
Our love affair began when I was just five years old (Meryl was 42). Bambi was all sold out at the movies, so we had to go with see the next best thing: Death Becomes Her. For any normal five-year-old, this would be the end of the world. But one look at Meryl and I felt like I was understood; a void in my meaningless five-year-old life had been filled.
As I grew older, so did my love for Meryl. I saw her every film (at least 10 times), traced her family tree, sent her yearly birthday cards, and applied to Vassar with the intention of introducing myself to her/my future daughter. Unfortunately, Vassar thought that my application essay was too much about Meryl, and not about the school itself, but why lie on your application?
After years of trying to contact her unsuccessfully (Why would she have an unlisted phone number? Honestly?), I decided to make a more decisive move: I signed up to be a writer on the local newspaper as an interviewer in the film section. I was quite the natural for a film writer; the editors were impressed by my knowledge of Street-trivia, despite my failings in other sections (who really knows who that Russell Crowe guy is anyway?).
But after six months of interviews with strange, untalented actors, I finally received my big assignment: a roundtable interview with Meryl!
Naturally I spent weeks preparing for the big day; I got my hair highlighted in Meryl's trademark blonde, and prepared myself with my monologue ("Hi Meryl; you don't know me but I'm you're future husband. After you divorce Don Gummer, we can move to the Great Plains and finally be happy together.).
But the interview went awry; how was I to know that there would be fifteen other writers? Needless to say, I was upset, but not discouraged. I took my seat at the table and waited with baited breath for Meryl to enter.
After 30 excruciating minutes, Meryl came in; she was just as beautiful as I imagined she'd be, and I had to slap myself (twice!) to keep from fainting. Unfortunately, I had to wait through 14 asinine interviewers (who clearly don't understand Meryl like I do). Sitting through questions like, "What was your inspiration for your role?" and "What are your future plans?" were so asinine. What are Meryl's future plans? Ditching her husband for me (of course).
Finally, I was given my chance; I launched into my monologue: "Hi Hi Meryl; you don't know me but I'm you're future husband..."
Unfortunately, I was rudely interrupted by one of her "security guards" acting in her "best interest."
"I'm sorry," he said, "but Ms. Street isn't accepting marriage proposals anymore."
"I know," I said, "but if you'll just listen to what I have to say..."
"I'm sorry, " Meryl said, "but I do happen to be happily married." She's so diplomatic. I could see her hiding her love for me, but the idiot in security didn't seem to understand. Clearly he has issues with anger management, because as soon as I started to walk toward her, he came toward me with a giant nightstick and started bludgeoning me over the head with it.
When I came to the next morning, I was in the hospital room in a jail cell. Clearly the security guard was a pathological liar, as well. I told the police my story, and they let me free, but I was given a restraining order from Meryl's publicist. Some people are so narrow-minded.
Some people ask me what I'm going to do next. A restraining order is a bit of a roadblock but it can be overcome. I know that Meryl wasn't the one who put it in place, and if I could just plan a secret rendezvous with her, we could possibly elope in Vegas and start a new chapter of our lives together. Why should I settle for something less than Meryl? After all, it was she who said, "There are some days when even I think I'm overrated, but not today"
