Dear Mr. Cross,
When we heard your velvety voice demanding pills from Meatwad, we knew that you were a supreme being placed on earth to make us all feel like doucheschnozzers. If only we could titter wickedly with you while sipping coffee and wearing cutoff jeans. Imagine the three of us skipping down the street arms linked singing "chicken pot chicken pot chicken pot pie", that is a dream that we've shared since swooning over slow Donny in the late 90's. Even roles that you may have regretted in hindsight, like that smarmy chipmunk abusing manager in a movie that will remain nameless, we worship your skill and your hot glasses. Only you could make wheelchair break dancing look effortless with that certain I don't know what that steals the scene.
We hope that the purpose of this letter is clear. Blog 'scuse me? would like to go on a date with you. Time, date and place are totally up to you. We're not picky when it comes to basking in the glow of your presence. And just as an aside, we taught Amber Tamblyn how to make out. Contact us at monicatara@gmail.com. We'll be checking our email every 5 seconds while listening to Creed and crying gently.
Hugs n kisses,
Tara and Monica
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