I'll never forget the first time I saw you. You were walking on hind legs, striding across the screen as a Mr. Tumnus so good-looking, C.S. Lewis would consider the pros of bestiality. How could I resist? Your charming faux-English accent (does it bother you that no one realizes you're Scottish?), your limpid baby blues (actually, turquoise - definitely turquoise) and earnest grin single-handedly made me renounce Judaism.
We spent a few years apart, but then I studied abroad in Scotland and wanted to atone for having forgotten the way your eyelashes interlock because of their impossible length. I know you aren't into Keira the way you could be into me, James. I studied in Edinburgh! That's only an hour from Glasgow! There's a big Jewish community in Glasgow!
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you off. I just want you to understand the depths of my feelings for you. I've watched all your Shameless episodes on YouTube, and I just don't see what Anne-Marie McDuff has that I don't, with the possible exception of blonde hair, blue eyes and Scottish ancestry.
It was the luckiest day of my life when I learned I would be doing an interview with you for Street. I planned my outfit for days, imagining what would leave the best impression during our four-minute phone call. And then - tragedy. Your agent phoned and said you were only doing top press. Like the New York Times. Tell me, James, did the NYTimes forgive that disaster of a movie you starred in with what's her name? No, they panned it. The only panning you and I would do would involve a marathon rolling (pin) session on my kitchen table. And perhaps the stove.
I've stalked on you Facebook and written messages to everyone claiming to be you. I've seen all your interviews and I love the way you throttle your R's; won't you please let me straddle your Scottish Lowlands?
I'll be waiting for you, James, at the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. Don't disappoint me - or The Last King of Scotland will lose its appeal after the 74th viewing.
Your Commonwealth Pal