DISCLAIMER: Due to the alarming amount of bias in the following piece, it must be clarified that the author has intimate ties to the subject. By that, I obviously mean the aspiring to intimate ties kind.
Ma chère Marion,
Marion. My life, my lust. Ma-ri-on: the sound of each syllable contorting everything from lips to throat to, on three, turn the mouth into a Cheerio. Ma. Rrgghrri. On.
You walked into Farkas wearing a tailored, asymmetric black and white striped blouse and could’ve walked away with more than just a golden Pudding Pot. You could’ve had me…in a state of catatonic fangirl shock, eager to mumble incoherent adulations to you in person.
Yet you chose to postpone our destined encounter for fame and glory. At first this seemed vain, but after seeing your black heel-less boots (I mean, who DOES that?#inspiration) and your Namaste to the hosts, I was convinced otherwise. Not to mention that slight millisecond when you looked in my general direction, said, “I love being kissed,” and added, “You are good kissers.” Now, I prefer subtle flattery, but hey girl. Hey.
Accepting the Hasty Pudding Theatrical’s tasks was the most sincere form of courtship I’ve witnessed in my brief existence. Proving yourself to me in front of a room full of people who paid to see you? Unbelievably romantic. The one thing I did not appreciate was Leonardo DiCaprio’s “guest appearance.” Come on. A ménage à trois seemed like a great idea at the time, OK?
After Leo—whom I confess I still have a thing for—revealed that completing a particular task would free you from meta-dreams, you persevered like the goddess that you are. You left a visibly diseased Gwyneth Paltrow speechless when you flawlessly acted out a death scene, impersonated Forrest Gump with a Donald Duck-esque Southern accent, and apologized for the debacle that was “Nine.” [(Tearfully.) I forgive you.] Both Salvador Dalí and Pablo Picasso could not live up to the existential self-portrait you insightfully captioned “REALLY GOOD DEAD PERSON.” Even Édith Piaf herself seemed negligible after your screechy rendition of “Non, je ne regrette rien.”
Oh yeah, and the Hasty Pudding Theatricals put on a show of sorts at the end. I mean, I guess they were ridiculously talented or whatever, but I only have eyes for you, mon amour. The back of your head, that is, but still.