Dear Daniel Radcliffe,
I am totally in love with you. Back when I was a teenager I had plans to meet you, fall in love, and get married. I suppose back then I didn’t mind that you are short. (Not that I mind now, of course. At least not really. You sometimes wear lifts, right?)
I really don’t know much about you personally aside from the fact that you are amazingly talented on stage, you once wore the same outfit every day to annoy the paparazzi, and (best of all) you are Harry Potter.
Harry. Freaking. Potter. (I’m not going to lie, I mostly love you because you’re Harry Potter.)
Anyways, I think we would do well together, you and I. We are both brunettes and both have eyebrows. You’re British and I’m Canadian which is basically like being politely British. And you’re only two years younger than me so at least we’re both still children of the 80’s.
According to Wikipedia you are also very interested in social change and are a huge advocate of tolerance which is great because, aside from my fear of midgets, I am too.
But back to our future.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed about our marriage and subsequent divorce, with you insisting I call you Daniel instead of Harry and me just yelling “Imperio!” and waving my hairbrush in response. After the split we will awkwardly run into each other on occasion and you’ll pretend to think I’m crazy and I’ll pretend that you really are “Daniel” and not my beloved Harry. (Can’t let the muggles know the truth, can we?)
It will be magic.
And best of all, you’ll be able to introduce me to my future BFF, Emma Watson (aka. Hermione Granger). She’ll take my side in the divorce, of course, and when we reconcile years later she will be the first person we tell (sorry, Julia). We will get remarried in the Great Hall and our children will go to Hogwarts and all will be as it should.
True love conquers all.
PS. For the sake of full disclosure, my love for you didn’t start until you were in your third year at Hogwarts. I’m not a pervert.