I am writing to request an immediate halt to your slaying of my childhood heartthrobs. While I understand that you have a certain job to do, and that includes striking mortal terror into our hearts, I really must insist that you leave the bonnie-visaged men of my youth unscathed.
It all started out last week when you shuffled Brad Renfro off this mortal coil.
Brad Renfro was a child actor and one of the first boys I knew to be “hot.” Of course, I was too young at the time to have loins, so this knowledge was imparted to me by friends, rather than my drive to reproduce. Nevertheless, I’ve been a devotee of his work since growing ovaries. He was in my favorite movie:
But today, God, you further broke my heart by robbing the world of the stunningly handsome, painfully talented Heath Ledger. He died this afternoon under (currently) murky circumstances – in Mary-Kate Olsen’s apartment, no less. I was shaken earlier this year by his unexpected departure from Brooklyn, following his separation with his wife, Michelle Williams. But really, this is too much.
When my teenage heart first went a-flutter:
And when my grown-up heart pretty much fell out of its heart-hole (or “chest” if you’re a doctor):
So, God, I really must insist that you stop killing all these men. They are important to me.
Respectfully and fearfully,
Update: Gawker disagrees with the NY Times about Heath Ledger kicking the bucket in an Olsen’s apartment. Let it be known there is some controversy on the subject.