Damien Galeone

Dear Jennifer

Big fan. Well, to be fair, I’ve only seen Silver Linings Playbook, but still, you were great. And I love that Bradley Cooper. He’s Jewish, isn’t he? Wikipedia says he’s Irish and Italian, but he’s got those Semitic good looks and he grew up in Jenkintown. My mom had a cheese shop there. Great tuna melts. Anyway, I digress.

OK, so a couple of pictures of your boobs ended up on the internet. It’s an enormous invasion of privacy,  embarrassing, and a total betrayal of trust, but really, it’s not such a big deal. Boobs are boobs. Everyone has seen boobs, and almost half of the world has imagined yours, so just try not to be so upset. These things happen. Hell, at least you’re not Jude Law. Shrinkage is real.

It’s time like these that I thank a pretend deity that I’m not famous, cause that’s really the X factor isn’t it? I mean, of course there’s the fact that you are gorgeous and I’m a chubby middle-aged white dude. But like most people, I’m a Nobody and therefore nobody else cares to snap pictures of us frolicking around with the cat in our underwear to a good Zeppelin tune. For example.

I’m so insignificant that I don’t appear in a video singing Happy, nor one of me getting ice water dumped on my head. Oh, I have one book out there, and the 89 people who bought it might be cheesed off that I’m dancing around in my undies rather than working on my narrative style, but otherwise, nobody would really care.

Still, despite your fame, you’re no different from the rest of us and once in a while that enzyme that separates rational thought from horny idiocy gets blurred. Everyone has done something dumb in that moment of extreme arousal: sent a picture, had a picture taken, written a sext message that made them physically cringe…after. For example.

Even I have given into the instinct to send a naughty picture. I remember the morning I sent it off. I cleverly made sure my face was nowhere near it, but not so cleverly sent it from my Gmail account. And then it took forever to send. So out in cyberspace was It attached to my Gmail account like General Zod and his colleagues in the Phantom Zone. And for 5 minutes I was near apoplectic thinking I’d just sent everyone in my contacts list – my boss, Grandmom, Bradley Cooper’s mohel – an unforgettable morning shot. I did not. And even if I had, nobody would care. Because I’m not famous.

If you want my advice, it’s this: set a profile on a Russian dating website. Why? Well, first of all, you’d get a ton of dates. Secondly, have you seen these people? If you haven’t, check out this link.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/completely-unexplainable-russian-dating-site-pictures#lk9dvh

Look at them! What the hell is wrong with these people!? Now, you might have asked why I advised doing this, but I hope it’s clear now. Once you set a Russian dating profile, everyone, and I mean everyone will forget your boobs.

“Boobs,” they’ll say? “Who cares about her boobs? Did you see the pic of her eating that tuna fish and watermelon? Now that was hot. What do you make of that one where she’s attacking that man in the dog costume with those katanas? I didn’t know she was Russian.”

Anyway, even if you don’t want to set a profile on a Russian dating site, just looking at the pictures will probably cheer you up. I like the one with the midget boxer. One more bit of advice, this one comes from a Russian lady I know who says that next time you let someone take nude photos of you, you should wear a leather sack on your head.

Well, there you go. Tell Bradley Mazel tov on the success.

All the best,

Damien