I’ve never been attracted to Tom Cruise.
He always hung around the sidelines, going “heyyy Natalia, what’s up?”
And I’ve been going, “Tom, honey, no. You’re a swell, charming actor, you really are. But you also kind of scare me. And the phrase ‘devoted Scientologist’ just doesn’t fill me with profound awe.”
And he’d go, “but you’re tall. And blond. And curiously dating a shorter, darker man. Can’t you see it’s in the stars? What is UP?”
And I’d go, “but Toooooooooom. Remember that ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall’ thing from Mission Impossible 3? Come on, man!”
And he’d go, “whatever, you don’t do it for me EITHER. And you can’t carry off dark hair like my luminous wife Katie, besides.”
And I’d go, “whatever, you took on Brooke Shields and got your sweet ass handed to you! Take that!”
And it was a comfortable situation for all involved.
Of course, Tom Cruise had to one-up me and put on a damn eyepatch:
"Mwa ha HA!" (picture from Flickscribe.com)
What the hell is going on here? Did he, like, call up my friends? Did he hack into my e-mail account and find out all of these old G-chat conversations about the virtues of eyepatches and black shiny boots? Is this what’s really going on here? Because, you know, Tom, it was creepy even when Bill Murray did it in “Groundhog Day.” I mean, WHERE do you get off on getting me off?
Did he have a bet with his friends? Does he just want to ruin my life? I need to know. I really do. Because this is low, Tom. Really low. I was looking forward to a decent writing career. A decent life, in fact. A life of a somewhat shabby, trendy respectability, in which people light my cigarettes for me at parties, when I am just drunk enough on good champagne to smoke in the first place. Now you have me all confounded and questioning my own sanity.
I mean, Tom – look, my grandma can’t watch “Valkyrie.” She actually lived under Nazi occupation, she can’t handle this sort of thing. I wasn’t going to watch “Valkyrie” either. It’s not really a solidarity thing, I could never understand how she feels, I won’t appropriate her feelings, I couldn’t even try, but I’d heard it was a bit anti-climactic and was, like, whatever. And then I get dragged to it against my will, and now this.
I used to be able to share all crushes with grandma. I don’t think she’ll quite get what this one is all about though.
But the truly horrifying thing in all of this is that it’s not even about your morally ambiguous character. Damn, I wish I was that deep. It’s about a freaking eyepatch. And the way you, in that one tiny scene that was quickly ruined by the advent of a little blond girl, say “the children?” as you look at your wife when she tells you that “the children couldn’t wait” to see you, or some stuff like that.
It made me realize why you have been earning millions for all of these years. And the truth of the matter is – if it takes one glance and phrase to earn you millions while I sit here gluing my one pair of boots together with some weird black, shiny substance that smells vaguely of turpentine… I just don’t know, Tom. I throw up my hands. The world is too cruel a place for me.
I retreat back to my couch, re-watch “A Few Good Men,” and weep for the freaking universe.
You won, Tom. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re cackling.
I hope you keep that eyepatch flying, baby.
