Dear Russell Brand,

Happy Valentine’s Day. I just saw you on SNL and I think you are adorable. A-dor-a-ble. There I said it. I promised myself that I wouldn’t gush or make a fool of myself. I did that once before when I sent a fan letter to Justin Timberlake when I was 11. Terrible, terrible decision. You see, I hadn’t done all the research about pre-pubescent girls who go through this weird psychological brain thing where they project on to cute famous boys all of their hopes and dreams for a future romantic partner. You don’t know me, but I am SO not one of those girls who would wait in a hotel lobby for, say, the aforementioned Mr. Timberlake on the hope and prayer I would actually run into him. First, I would never have been able to get a grown-up to allow me to do this. Second, that’s crazy talk.

Five years later, it’s starting to occur to me that I might actually be close to getting romantic with a guy which doesn’t include fancy stationery, stamps and a whiff of perfume. I’m not naming names. I have this friend who I like a lot. And I think he’s into me, too. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid of this kooky thing called love. Not because I’m afraid of getting hurt, really. But I have this idea that you sort of chemically bond with the first person you ever really fall in love with. Sort of like a neuro-tattoo. Doctors have been studying the whole idea of young people who “imprint” with someone and then when it’s over, they sort of never get over it. That right there is enough to make me go, “Hold on a sec. Do I want this guy permanently affixed to my soul?” Heavy.

So just bear with me here. I’m writing to you because you’re my current celebrity crush– not because you are an ex-drug addict or because you have a horribly foul mouth. I know plenty of girls who would be into you for those reasons alone. No, I like you because you have qualities that I’m looking for in a potential partner. You’re funny, you’re smart and you sort of do your own thing most of the time. Oh (and you probably know this) you’re British accent instantly quadruples your appeal over an American love interest. That’s sort of a given.

But I am disappointed. Why? Two words. Katy. Perry. Why did you do this? I asked my friend Eliot and he sort of looked at me funny and said, “Um. She is incredibly hot.” Not good enough. Not even close. Here you are, a New York Times best-selling author who regularly quotes people like Oscar Wilde. You clearly have some sort of disorder that makes it possible for you to be spontaneously witty and charming beyond typical human capabilities. And then there’s this POP star who I bet… look I’m not going to insult your wife. That would be cruel and predictable. If you tell me that she has read at least 25% of the best books in the world, I would feel better. Here is the list. If she can do fractions, I will think of her differently. And, here’s the clincher, if she can tell you who the Mayor of Reykjavik, Iceland is, then I give you my blessing.

If you were my age I would be the girl of your dreams. I am cute. I am an excellent speller. I make a decent marinara. I love Lou Reed. And I have pink hair which is NOT a wig (wink, wink). Forgive me, now I’m being cheeky. Sigh.

Russell, I hope you and Katy (if that’s her real name) can keep your vows. I am encouraged that you were at least married in India surrounded by elephants. This seems very serious and quite deep. If you’ve joined not only in the physical world but also on some sort of astral plane, I think you’ve got a good chance at making it.

For me, I will continue to look for my own soul mate who possesses your best qualities. Not the illegal ones. Just the good ones… like making me laugh and looking good on a red carpet and quoting dead people. Happy Valentine’s Day, you crazy Brit. Please don’t tell Katy about me. I think she could seriously hurt me.

Always,

Capra

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