Now that I’ve finally figured out that Rpattz is lurking somewhere in NYC, the possibility of me actually running into him has been upgraded from "completely nil" to "highly improbable." But, since I‘m a the-glass-is-half-full kinda chick (unless it’s a wine glass, cuz’ it would be empty when I was through with it) that still leaves a very small margin of possibility that I may run into our favorite hot & dorky English dude.
Image from HERE.
I know I have mentioned before that if I knew where Rpattz was filming I would go check it out. The more I think about this, the more I realize this would be a dreadful, stupid thing to do and that trying to find him would only end very, very horribly. This is good for Rpattz - but bad for me and you, if you are thinking you might possibly be able to have a vicarious successful stalker moment through me).
Let me state the obvious as succinctly as I can. I’m fucking oblivious. As I mentioned on this post over at Twilog, RPattz could be standing next to me and, unless he was sporting a neon sign proclaiming his name, I would have absolutely no idea he was even there. Godzilla could be razing buildings ten feet from me in a fiery inferno and I wouldn’t even notice. Frankly, I’m lucky I haven’t gotten pulverized by a bike messenger or a bus (just for the record, the bike messengers scare the living crap out of me). In my defense, I will notice any store that 'SALE' in their front window which given the times, is every single one of them. So I am distracted a LOT. And also very broke.
Secondly, I can only imagine the amount of mortification that would occur should I run into him somewhere. Remember how Bella is a danger magnet? Well, I’m an embarrassment magnet. I’m like a moth to the mortification flame. If some predicament will inevitably cause a great deal of shame, chagrin, awkwardness, what-have-you, I will feel forcibly compelled to throw myself into the situation with great gusto. And, as a general rule, the level of embarrassment increases exponentially if there is a good looking man involved.
Kinda like this hot guy... who I never would have noticed on the streets because I'm always in Jerkfaceland...
Case in point: Last summer I was coming out of Penn Station when two Adonises (Adonai?) stopped me and politely asked me, in their oh-my-god-so-sexy-I-have-no-idea-what-kind-of-accent, where Penn Station was. Not to be blasphemous here, but RPattz had nothing on these two gods. You know that thesaurus that Stephenie Meyer should have been using when she wrote Twilight? There is picture of those two guys next to, well, any except the four words she used over and over again in there. I mean, these guys were beyond good looking. They were stunning, exquisite, quite literally breathtaking. I stood there, agape and drooling for a few seconds, then I proceeded to stammer and stumble over my words, finally resorting to doing what foreigners hate the most - yelling at them: "PENN STATION IS RIGHT AROUND THIS CORNER. OKAY? DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND? AROUND THE CORNER!!!" [I screeched this while simultaneously flailing arms in the general direction of their destination. Just in case.] Then I tripped off the curb as I walked away and nearly dumped my bag out all over Broadway. I swear I heard one say to the other ‘what a fucking dumb bitch’ with his hot accent when they finished laughing at me. And I would have totally gone prostitutional on them anyway. Actually, scratch that - I would have given them a freebie!
Therefore, it goes without saying that one of the following, if not all of them, will happen at the exact moment I approach Rpattz to ask for a picture or autograph:
- I will forget how to speak English and instead jabber on in gibberish with spittle dripping down my chin
- I will start giggling maniacally until I am forcibly removed by security.
- I will call him Daniel Radcliffe and tell him I loved him in The Sorcerer’s Stone.
- I will spontaneously break out into a zit attack that will rival that of a a pubescent sixteen-year-old boy.
- I will fart loudly and, if I’m really lucky, will simultaneously experience the joys of exploding diarrhea.
- My clothes will suddenly be ripped from my body by an incredibly powerful gust of wind, revealing a pair of 10 year old, hole riddled 'period panties.'
- I’ll throw up on him (quite possibly while having exploding diarrhea at the same time) immediately after consuming a tuna fish sandwich.
- I will offer him a blowjob and then accidentally sneeze in the middle of it, thereby finding myself serving seven to ten in the state penitentiary for penile assault. My roommate will be a 400 pound murderer name Nelly and I’ll end up being her bitch. Upon my release, I will besieged by hordes of angry Twitards for giving their beloved Robward a permanent "tuck" and will be forced to live the rest of my life in exile where I’ll be forbidden to look at pictures that aren't of Leonard Nemoy. Or this guy.
Oh, and it goes without saying that whatever happens, it will most definitely be caught on camera and broadcast during prime-time on every station in every mother fucking country around the globe. And naturally it’ll go viral on youtube. I’m terrified of my fifteen minutes of fame because I know it’s going to be really, really embarrassing.
So, there you have it. As much as I’d love to run into Rpattz, I fear it can only end with my dignity writhing in agony while Shame moves in permanently to take it’s place. And trust me, at this age, my Dignity has definitely taken quite a beating. I’m pretty sure it’s just a huddled mass of bad memories at this point. Shame, on the other hand, is a familiar friend who has been eying up Dignity’s corner office. We’re quite comfortable together.