Owen, babe - I love you, really; but it would never work between us. I’m already married, and you have major commitment issues. Sure, you’re gorgeous and rich. But honest, I need to stay here in this crappy little Main Street town and pour my problems out into cyberspace. You can live the Hollywood jet-set life with out me.
Or, maybe not.
Here's a great article about how much Hollywood really cares about my cutie...
And another thing: what is it about despondency that makes you 'slash a wrist'? Does Freud have something to say about that body part? Why not just take a bath with your toaster and get it over with? Now Owen's going all Sylvia Plath on us? What next? Rehab Crashers? You, Me and the Easy Bake Oven of End-it-All?
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