sean, where have you been all my life...

When I wasn’t busy watching the draft, I was busy obsessing about my new love, Mr. Sean Penn. I’ve been familiar with his work since Jeff Spicoli and cannot explain to you why suddenly, I am completely overwhelmed by the immense talent and smoldering genius of this Oscar winner. It might have something to do with The Interpreter.
I want Sean Penn to put surveillance on my house. I want him to anonymously watch me leave my front door every morning, slowing falling in love with me as I obliviously walk to my car and drive away. I want him to give his subordinates specific instructions to take special care of me when he can’t be there to personally protect me. And I want him to rescue me from genocidal maniacs at the very last minute, whereupon I fall into his ripped and experienced arms to live happily ever after with a former Diplomatic Security Service agent.
Who knew Sean Penn was such a fox? I’m completely obsessed, downloading information and affixing photos of him about my desk. I think of little else, dreaming of what it would be like to see him squint at me across a bar and beat up some Hell’s Angel or paparazzo for violating my space. I want him to tell me wild Hollywood stories of hookers and eight-balls, broken noses and on-set antics. I want to dress him in tuxedos at Cannes and weathered flack jackets at Sundance. And I want to play with his hair.
In a convenient twist, I know where he lives. I’ve actually seen him around, dining everywhere from fancy French joints to scummy burger places. In fact, after my grandfather’s funeral, our family went out to dinner at Marche Aux Fleures and who was seated at the next table? Yep. SP.
It appeared he was engaging in some sort of business dinner and he and another man waited patiently for their third party to arrive. When their guest, a woman, approached the table, Sean stood up and scooted her chair out for her. Cuz that’s just the kinda guy he is. He’s the kinda of guy that hits the roof of a taxi after he puts you in the backseat, just to let the driver know that the precious cargo is in safe. He’s the kinda guy that apologizes after swearing in front of a lady. He’s the kind of guy that hard living and life experience has turned into a wise and settled character, with more worry lines than laugh lines, more scars than tattoos and more unbridled intense sensuality than I would know what to do with…