Oh Angelina. I'm going to call you "Angelina" and not "Angie" because I don't know you and it seems rude to co-opt a name close friends and family call you. Besides, you also seem like someone who would take down anyone who violated your space without permission.
Angelina, I have admired you for a long time. I admired your balls-out, crazy behavior of the Gia and Girl, Interrupted time. I'm not very daring and I admired that you brought the crazy and didn't care. I think you are beautiful. May I tell you that you are kind of a girl crush of mine? I was delighted to discover that you have a brain as well when I learned about your humanitarian work.
I was firmly Team Jolie to the consternation of my friends and their staunch Team Aniston stance. I never liked Jennifer Aniston and never doubted that she bored Brad to tears. You, however, are fascinating, and I applauded your union.
I occasionally contemplate what it would be like to have a conversation with you. We could swap mom stories and advice on the challenges of being workings even though you have 48 children and lots of money and nannies and are a movie star and I have only one child and no nannies and work at a desk job. We could snark on Gwyneth and her pretensiousness because I bet you secretly dislike her as much as I do. Imagine what your book club might be like: instead of reading the latest drivel from Sophie Kinsella, we'd read Doris Lessing or Simone de Beauvoir.
But Angelina, dear Angelina...what happened at the Academy Awards on Sunday? What was wrong with your right leg? Was it a nervous tic? Were you deliberately posing? Were you high? Angelina, a friend would tell you that the leg bit wasn't funny. It was *whispers* embarrassing. Everyone was laughing at you.
Angelina, I think you do have a sense of humor, probably a very dry wit bordering on caustic, but sometimes that type of humor doesn't come across well, and I like to think that's what happened on Sunday. What I like about you is that you remind of the old Hollywood legends of the 20s and 30s: beautiful, fascinating, mysterious and most of all, untouchable.
Angelina, I don't really want to know you because that would ruin the fun. On Sunday night, your jutting leg made you less goddess and more mere mortal. In this time of over-sharing and over-exposure, I need a little mystery.
Angeline, please, please keep us wondering and for god's sake, put away the leg.
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