Dear Wil Wheaton,
Hi. I’m sure you must be very confused about my insistent tweets asking for a picture of you collating, and about the fact that the I Blame Wil Wheaton shirt was given an award for being one of the most viewed shirts on zazzle.
First of all, let me assure you that I do not actually blame you. I blame your secretary. Or whoever is in charge of sending out photos of you collating papers. She should probably be fired.
Secondly, I’m pretty sure that you haven’t sent me a picture yet because you’re not sure what I’m going do with it and that is a totally fair question and one I’d be asking myself if a sex worker was asking me for a picture of me collating paper. In fact, I’d probably suspect that “collating paper” was code for some kind of weird sex act. Like, remember back before the internet was invented, when “laying cable” just meant you were laying cable? Me either. But I assure you, “collating paper” here just means collating paper.
You probably don’t read my blog so I should explain that the reason I need a picture of you is because I constantly get emails from PR people offering me pictures of celebrities using whatever bullshit product I don’t actually care about and I’d like it to stop. Most recently I wrote about my interactions with PR people who wanted to send me photos of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water, and of Selma Blair wearing a scarf. (This is all true). I still get these emails daily and my plan is to get a picture of you collating paper so that when they offer me a picture of “Harry Connick Jr. standing next to yarn” I can say “Thanks. Here’s a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper” and then they’ll be like “Um…why would I want a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper?” and I can be like, “EXACTLY.” It wouldn’t actually stop PR people from emailing me thousands of pictures of people-with-things but I’d at least feel better about it.
PS. It’s totally okay if you don’t want to send me a picture at all because years ago you commented on a post I wrote for a blog that doesn’t even exist anymore and now you get a pass for pretty much anything. You wrote “Now you can scratch one off”. I know because I kept the notification. I can’t actually remember what the post was about but I’m fairly certain your response, though brief, was totally apropos. Also, I emailed you to make sure it was really you and you responded: “It’s me”. Seven characters. It’s pretty clear you had a talent for twitter before it was even invented.
PPS. I had the maid proof-read this and she just pointed out that “laying cable” is not a sexual euphemism at all and I was like “Who’s the sex worker here, lady? They sent me to Japan to write about sex ponies so I’m pretty sure I’m the expert here” but then I looked it up and it turns out that “laying cable” is code for taking a long, unbroken poop. Apparently I was confusing “laying pipe” with “laying cable”and I’ve been saying it wrong for pretty much my entire life. Awesome. Plus, now the maid is claiming that “writing about sex doesn’t make you a sex worker” so I had to pull up the pictures of me in the sex dungeon for proof and she was all “You’re fully clothed” and I was like “I think I have a picture of me naked in here somewhere” and then my husband walked in and was all “Why is no one working in here?” and I was like “Do you know where those pictures are of me naked but covered with hamburgers?” and the maid was like “It doesn’t count if you’re covered with hamburgers” and then Victor said that from now on I’m not allowed to be in the house on days when the maid comes. Because apparently he doesn’t want me to have friends.
PPPS. I found the hamburger pictures. You don’t have to look at them though. They’re really more for the maid, who I’m not allowed to talk to anymore. I don’t blame you though. I blame Victor.
Updated again: It would be selfish to keep this to myself. This page is for you. You’re welcome, world.