But I've moved on...
Dear Oscar Red Carpet,
I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just gonna say it. I think we need to see other people. You just don't excite me the way you used to. I know, I know, relationships can't be all passion all the time. But we only get together for one night a year, which means you've got 364 days to come up with something so toe-curlingly amazing to make me grab the pillows and scream out your name in ecstasy. Instead I get missionary style. I don't think it's too much to ask for a little drama, a little subversion, a little kink from a one-night stand. If I wanted last night's Red Carpet, I would've married it, thrown on a pair of sweat pants and invested in a good vibrator. You left me cold and unsatisfied, again. (I admit that I came close when SJP appeared in her crystal-encrusted Chanel sack. But her haggard orange face quickly took away my horny.)
Don't you remember how hot it used to be with us? Bob Mackie headdresses and Marjan Pejoski feathers and Ralph Lauren taffeta? I even loved those tender nights when you were draped in sunflower yellow Vera Wang chiffon, chartreuse Chinoiserie by John Galliano and vintage Valentino. That was like a dream. Now, I'm afraid, you've lost your yen for it. And for me, sadly. You no longer go out of your way to impress me with your influence or woo me with your whimsy or titillate me with your gusto. I guess you've moved on to a younger, less discerning lover and this is your way of telling me. I'm hurt. I thought you were different.
Just so you know, I'm moving on too. It's Grammy, and although it's strange that his name brings to mind support hose and purple hair, it's also fitting because he knows how to work it. Baby, he does it weird and crazy and oh so good. It's the hottest thing I've seen since...well...you in your heyday. Which makes my happiness bittersweet when we're together. You will always be my first love but you're no longer my number one lover. I look forward to seeing you again next year, but this time I'll be in my sweat pants.
Your former admirer,