Dear Oscar Statue,

I am writing you today with the unequivocal belief that you and I now share some cosmic bond after we locked eyes during Guillermo Del Toro’s acceptance speech for best director at the Academy Awards on Sunday.

That was weird, right?

I saw you in that fat hand as surely as you saw me curled up in my girlfriend’s lap, still crying because of all the mean things that portly, little boy Jimmy Kimmel said at the last award show. I could almost see your lips curl in a coy smile. The thought made my heartbeat quicken and set my palms running with cold sweat.

What happened to me?

I’ve watched so many award shows before today, but never have I felt something like this. I did hear a sweet, otherworldly song coming from Macklemore’s Grammy award several years ago, but that was nothing compared to the electricity that pulsed through me the other night. Sure, I heeded its message and stole a bunch of lottery tickets from my nearest convenience store, but dear Statue I can only imagine that you would have done the same in my position.

Tell me what secrets you hide, Statue. Are you the original Oscar, long since shrunk and encased in gold? Are you the victim of some freak wiccan experiment involving alchemy and DNA replication?

Statue, if you need help send an email to the address that I screamed at the TV last night.

How crazy is love!

One minute I am begging my girlfriend to not leave me for eating all her birth control pills in a half-asleep blur and now I am planning a new life with a statue that I barely know. These things can move so quickly, and yet I have never felt more right about anything in my life. Even now, as I look up into her big, fleshy face, I am reminded of everything that you are not.

My goodness, how could I have not seen it before today: You are the shining, glorious reminder that movies are worth watching. In your eyes I see every femme fatale that has ever crossed my dreamscapes. In your brawny chest I spy the haughtiest action stars strutting a red carpet made specially for you and I.

How confused am I!

I must sound like a hopeless romantic. What would the world think of a man and a miniature statue, united as only some God of Cinema could have hoped for? You, my ornamental prince, pressed lovingly into my chest as together we explore the mysteries of the mind!

Will restaurants seat us? Will we be allowed to apply for a marriage certificate or must we fight for our right to love? Would Quentin Tarantino finally take my meeting invitations to provide feedback on his notorious crapshoot Pulp Fiction?

We have so much to learn about each other and yet, in the moment that I saw you on TV, I feel as if entire worlds passed between us. I know what it was like to sit, in wait for your moment, with hundreds of others like you. And only you could ever know what it is like to be forced to watch Jimmy Kimmel in the hot, human embrace of your non-gold partner.

Oh sweet statue, consider this my closing message: Whatever horrible things you might see or hear about me in the coming days, know that I acted out of love. What could an ordinary woman understand about the passion, the power, the sweeping feeling of love that washes over a man when he finally connects with the statuette of a much smaller man on TV thousands of kilometers away?

My sweet Oscar, I will do anything for us. I pray that you need not fear the heavy-handed touch of that amateur director Guillermo Del Boring much longer.

Yours in everlasting cinema,