Michel Legrand get into my smart car*! Please, let me drive you around in my smart car*! Twenty-five miles per hour and powered only by anger! Mon Amour! Je t'aime! Mon Amour! Je t'aime! Je t'aime! Was it only last week I sat drunkenly on the couch and asked you through the television: Why Michel? Why, when my tiny heart can take no more- why must you burn me with your lazer-fat-rainbow melodies?! I'm crying ice cream Michel!!! Is that what you want?!?! That IS what you want, I know. You and your charming eyebrows riding around in my smart car*.

Meryl Streep get into my smart car*! Please, let me drive you around in my smart car*! Twenty-five miles per hour, I car-jacked the lollipop guild! It's funny because they're small, see? And the smart car* is small. The lollipop guild, right? Anyway, Sophie, I want you to know that when you went to the library and tried to find the poems of Emily Dickinson and were met by that total jerk in the glasses that made fun of you for asking for Charles Dickens in the American author section, even though you clearly said 'Emile Dickens' which anyone who WORKS in a library would have interpreted as Emily Dickinson, I want you to know Sophie, that if you want...I'll kill him for you. I really will. But why Sophie? Was it only last week that I sat drunkenly on the couch and asked you through the television: Why? When my tiny heart can take no more-why must your hair be so golden, your skin as alabaster? Why must you speak perfect Polish accented German? Why am I thinking that even in the work camp you look hot? I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for that one, thanks. The emoting is too much- my heart is breaking for you, Sophie. Is that what you want?! That IS what you want, I know. You and your perfect skin and your great actressness riding around in my smart car*.

*I do not, in fact, own a smart car in which to drive around my drunken loves.