News continues to break on the Kristen Stewart and Rupert Sanders cheating scandal, and the most recent information to be released is that heartbroken Robert Pattinson has been receiving gifts, notes, flowers, cards, marriage proposals, etcetera from fans wishing him well and wishing Kristen death. Of course, R-Patz is a rich movie star with no need for your cheap, flowery sentiments, so he’s been having his people send them straight to local hospitals. (I’m currently enjoying the image of some old grandmother coming out of a coma to a room filled with confetti-stuffed love notes made out to ‘Edward Cullen’.) I’m sure in reality he really appreciates the support, but I think it’s clear that there are much better uses for all those presents than sending them to hospitals. Namely, sending them to me.
See because here’s the thing. When my boyfriend cheated on me, not one person sent me flowers. What the eff, you guys? Why the preferential treatment? It’s totally not fair because aside from me being a girl and Robert Pattinson being a guy, our lives are completely identical. In every respect. We were both cheated on. We were both in long-term relationships — mine was eight long months and his was three short years. (Actually, when you really think about it, my relationship was actually longer than his, because of the theory of relativity and mathematics and because I say so.) We were both really surprised by the cheating: Robert because he couldn’t believe Kristen could do that to him, and me that it had taken my boyfriend so long to get around to it. We both were closely associated with the Twilight series: he starred in it and I would later in life come to flip through its pages, just to find out what I was missing. (Answer: nothing.) We were both equally famous — Robert is a Hollywood movie star, and I’d starred in several community theater productions at the time. So you see? Identical. Lives. We may as well have been Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen in their nonexistent made-for-TV movie Cheater Takes All.
And yet I found myself empty-handed. No delicious sparkly candies to match my beautiful vampire skin. No weepy consolation notes written in the blood of my fans. No cheerful balloons bobbing around my house saying, “Eff that bee.” My many million adoring fans remained suspiciously silent as I cried myself to sleep night after night after night…for three nights total. And then I was over it. But before that it was like Hollywood didn’t even care about my misfortunes.
It’s not fair! I want my heartache used as fodder for the tabloids! I want my life uprooted and splashed across the headlines! I want to go stay at Reese Witherspoon‘s house while I rest and recoup.
Ooh! I have an idea! Let me just see if I can rustle up an illicit photo-shoot with the director of my last film and put my career back on the map. No one will have ever thought of that.