Dear Ms. Beckinsale,
Yes, I refer to you as “Ms.” because I loosely consider you married. Let’s be perfectly honest, your husband, director Len Wiseman, directed you in “Underworld”, which was only a success because you were involved. He’s not talented. Anyone can throw a smoking hot Brit such as yourself in a leather vampire suit and watch the dollars roll in.
Me, I’ve been a fan of yours for many years. I’m much more dedicated to you than Mr. Wiseman. Hell, I sat through almost three hours of “Pearl Harbor” just for you. I stood up and clapped for your Diet Coke commercials, even though my own wife told me to sit down.
The point is Kate, (can I call you Kate?) it’s tough in this world to find true love. I’m convinced I’m yours. I may not be producing the next twenty-three editions of “Twilight”, but I’m an all-around swell guy, and I can sear a steak to perfection. I’m sorry, are you a vegetarian? Who cares. Just look me up when you get near Chicago. I’m a great time. Ow. My wife just hit me, really hard. I’ve got to go.
Hugs and kisses,