Earlier this week, a woman was arrested after making several attempts to enter John Cusack’s home. She was then served with a restraining order, based not only on this attempted break-in, but three years of attempted contact, including telling him that she was informed by angels that they’d been together in a previous life and needed to be together.
This is all very frightening, a horrific downside of life in the public eye. But, I’d be lying if a big part of me didn’t read about this and think, “well, YEAH. He broke us.”
I think at this point in time, we’ve all been cured of our Klosterman-foretold Cusackian illnesses through years of Twitter douchery, the fact that he hates Better Off Dead and a lot of really terrible movies (guys, I can’t even talk about Must Love Dogs. Like, I CANNOT.) But, sometimes, like listening to “Room for Squares” and forgetting for a moment that John Mayer is a human nightmare, you think of Gib, or Lane, or, sigh-shiver, Lloyd, and you just can’t help yourself. So, maybe you date lookalikes, or you wistfully walk past Milwaukee and Honore in the hopes that he’s doing a Championship Vinyl nostalgia walk, or, I don’t know, you try to climb in his window because the angels told you your love was the forever kind, whatever, it happens to ALL of us.
Sure, this lady’s nutty. But didn’t he make all of us a little nutty? Didn’t we all want to receive his heart, for just pens a day? He skied the K2 of our souls and, sure, we’re going to get a little serious about it, and if he’d just answer one of
my this silly lady’s voicemails—she totally isn’t me, that’d be nuts—it wouldn’t be such a big deal.
Anyway, in a totally unrelated story, I’m going to be kind of hard to get a hold of for a bit. In an even more unrelated story, orange is a really bad color on me, really brings out the olive in my skin. In a super even more unrelateder story, hypothetically speaking, anyone got, like, 150 large-ish in bail money? I’m just asking, it’s just a survey.