just call me catherine zeta-jones

this is going to seem like it's completely unrelated to the topic of my experiences in new yawk city, but have a little faith in me, dear reader-o-mine. i'll tie it in later on down the line. for now, i want to talk about a little thing i'd like to call love. love in its purest form, as a matter of fact- the love of a fan(atic) for their celebrity crush. yes, i must admit that although i like to think that i'm above teenybopper celebrity crushes, i cannot stop myself from loving a certain accomplished actor. blame it on the fact that i'm sexually attracted to talent. (no, really. case in point: a certain percussionist with a flare for ragtime xylophone- eek! that was a direct reference to my personal life. oh me, oh my!) i comfort myself with the reassurance that my crush, no, love, is far above the level of those run of the mill teenage fads and phases, and while i can't deny the allure of high school musical's dirty blonde (and i'm not just talking about his hair shafts, if you catch mah drift) heartthrob zac efron with his straw fedora and his suit-and-flip-flops fashion sense, it is not his face that touches my heart with the oh-so-gentle touch that only true love can offer. no, mine is a mature love. it is a love that knows no age, refusing to limit itself to the current scant selection of teen- and early twentysomething heartthrobs out there in hollywood, strolling along in their ray ban wayfarers, chatting up starlets on their blackberrys and getting all tatted up. no, i am far beyond such juvenile attractions.

who is this mysterious man, you ask? i say man because i think i've made my point that i am far beyond loving a mere boy. well, since you ask, i'll tell. this isn't, after all, the military under the clinton administration. this is my blog, where i make my own damn rules. so, tell i shall. my love is for none other than the loveably sinister, sex-in-a-cape, preferably raven-haired studmuffin that is professor severus snape, known in real life as alan motherf**king rickman. (did you like the censoring? i kind of think it makes the sentence seem official, like someone cares enough about me and my lil' ol' blog to censor us. ah, a girl can dream, can't she..?) long before hp began its cinematic journey into tween epicdom, i knew that he was special. i knew that we were destined for a life of love. i'm not sure when i first saw him. according to wikipedia (affectionately known in my house as "the bible"), the first film he was in that i saw was robin hood: prince of thieves, in which he was the sheriff of nottingham. i don't know about that, though. i do know, however, when this love affair that he and i are entangled in first began. it's all in the voice. that voice, oh that voice. it was the moment he first spoke to me as metatron, the voice of god (how fucking appropriate!) in dogma. that's when i knew. i just knew. it was a magical moment. that dry, sexy, irresistable monotone slid its way down my ear canal, caressing my sound receptors like a velvety pudding would caress a dry, thirsty throat. it was too much for me. i was smitten. it was at that moment that i knew i was meant to devote my life to all things alan rickman. it was a year shy of a decade ago, and yet it feels like yesterday.

something about the way he says "mr. potter!" keeps things fresh and exciting. i envy his long-time girlfriend, the incredibly lucky and simultaneously unworthy rima horton, mostly because she gets to hear that voice in bed. how intense would that be? just to hear him in the throes of desire. in my mind, it involves him exclaiming "mr. potter!" it's almost too much for me to bear. (and just in case your mind is in the gutter, let me remind you that the man is 61 years old. his voice alone would be enough, i believe, to bring me to orgasm. no sex necessary.)

i know you may be a little confused, dear reader. you may be scratching your head wondering what i'm on that would make me so intensely taken aback by a 61 year old man whose biggest role (offstage, that is, because let me tell you- he is a genius on broadway, too.) is as a reformed ex-deatheater wizard with a haircut 20 years too young for him.. were you thinking that, reader? maybe you were, in which case, i would reply by explaining that i don't fucking care if you understand it because alan rickman and i do, and that's all that matters. was that a little too harsh? i guess next time you won't go spreading your negativity, now will you? haters.

would it make you feel better to know that while alan rickman possesses my heart, the recently 21 year old subject of tabloid fodder and tween wet dreams all over america, shia labeouf, possesses my mind? (sexually, that is.) he is the object of my desires. something about the tattoo of a bear paw on his upper arm is just so fucking yummy. he's cajun and jewish, for christ's sake! the only thing that would make him more perfect for me would be if there was a little arab mixed in there for good measure, but i'll give him the benefit of the doubt as a jew. i mean, really. he's a jew. what else can i really ask for?

if i could just get fifteen minutes with him to work my magic..

i mean, come the fuck on.


anyway, you may be wondering how all this relates to my ongoing collection of noteworthy experiences in new yawk city.. well, let me tell you. i went to see rent on broadway tonight. the way this relates is because a former flame of mine, mr. anthony "too-sexy-for-heterosexuality" rapp (a.k.a. the original mark cohen) is ending his recurrance of his character in the play after this week, which means that my viewing tonight included him in the cast and totally reignited the fire i once felt for him and that damned striped scarf. (it is definitely worth mentioning that along with mr. rapp, the original roger, adam pascal was also in the show tonight). again, you may be wondering what the eff that has to do with alan "the voice" rickman. well, here's the connection, and it didn't even require the game of 'six degrees of separation' that i was considering making you play, which i've decided to save for a later date. anthony, much like alan rickman, is a celebrity crush of mine who MUST know on some spiritual level that we are meant to be together, yet lives his life otherwise. okay, to acknowledge the obvious: he's gay. i know it. i'm not delusional. (okay, maybe a little. but only enough for it to be loveable. not like, crazy or anything.) he and i obviously cannot be because of his partner, rodney to. however, i think i've found an entry into the beautiful world of rapp. according to my fave, wikibible, rapp and to are in the process of trying to acquire a child. and by acquire, i mean adopt, of course. well here's the thing: i have a perfectly good womb that i'm willing to offer up to the couple. i've got some damn good genes, too, which i'm also willing to offer up to them, as long as anthony is the one doing the implantation of the sperm.

i don't know. maybe i've gone a little too far? a little off the deep end? funny thing is, i feel perfectly sane. certainly that's one of the symptoms of sanity, right? what do you think? oh well. if it'll get me any closer to alan rickman (minus that cow rima horton), shia lebeouf (minus his rumored fling, part-time singer and full-time lucky slut, rihanna), or anthony rapp (minus rodney to, whose name alone leads me to believe that he's fictional and just a ruse used by anthony rapp in an effort to be coy with me, the sly devil), then so be it.

i'm 40 years too young for alan rickman, not rihanna, and not a gay man. why was fate so cruel to me?

..at least i'm still superhot.



much love.