I know you’re awfully young to be thinking about marriage (also fictional, and a cartoon), but I wanted to submit my application for your hand now, before any other potential suitors come along.
You see, Louise, I believe you’ll grow to be a fine (albeit mad as a hatter) young woman. And I think I could spend the rest of my life with you. Who wouldn’t love an agent of chaos such as yourself? I chose the online handle “lokifire” for a reason (it’s because just plain old “Loki” was already taken). Your unbridled avarice, your passion for hurting as many people as possible. It’s all so attractive!
Plus the bunny ears.
I love the bunny ears.
So, Louise Belcher, I want you to know: I’ll wait for you.
Yours (in about a decade),
(P.S. I hope it doesn’t hurt my case that I’m a female.)
I’ll admit it. When I was but a wee lass reading Archie comics, you were the boy for me.
I just couldn’t understand what everyone saw in Archie Andrews. He was a bit goofy, redheaded, and couldn’t decide between two girls! What’s so appealing about that, right?
Besides that, he didn’t have your traits of deviousness, sneakiness and shiftiness. Actually, Reggie Mantle, that’s only one character trait, because those are all synonyms. But what a character trait it is! You were willing to go to any length, to do anything to get what you wanted. I think that thing was Veronica Lodge, but it could have just been “humiliating Archie Andrews,” I don’t know.
And I want you to know, Reggie Mantle, I respect that.
That gung-ho attitude. That willingness to resort to underhanded means.
That will serve you well in the real world (should you ever, you know, choose to inhabit the real world, rather than the happy cartoon land of Riverdale High), where all the successful people I know are sheer bastards, or just really really talented. You know already, Reggie Mantle, even in your cheerful illustrated world, that hard work and determination just aren’t enough.
Which is why, Reggie Mantle, someday, you’re going to go far.
And I want to be right there beside you.
Dear Yakuza with Glasses (a character in one of the best films ever, Versus),
I love you.
Sure, you’re probably dating Yakuza Leader with Butterfly Knife, but I think you need to drop him and consider dating/wedding me instead.
There are many reasons why, such as: I won’t encourage you to engage in plots against our evil, immortal boss that will end with you getting your heart ripped out, turned into a zombie, and then cut up by Tak Sakaguchi. Because that’s not what I want for you, Yakuza with Glasses.
What I want for you is to shoot more zombies in a completely deadpan way, like when that one guy lifts you up by the throat and you just casually reach for your gun and shoot him till he drops you. Or when you’re attacked by two zombies with guns and you move out of the way right in time and then they shoot each other and you wipe off your glasses because there’s blood all over them.
Basically, Yakuza with Glasses, I want you to be surrounded by zombies all the time.
Because it’s hot.
Dear Big Brother,
I am filled with so many things right now: Love (but not the passionate kind, because passion is wrong and Ingsoc is good). Obedience. That deli-meat sandwich I ate at lunch.
But mostly, Big Brother, complete adoration of you, your principles, everything you stand for and all that is good and holy in the world. Except for the holy part, because I’m pretty sure you’ve abolished religion. But that’s OK, because I love you for that.
I. Love. Big. Brother.
War is Peace! (Not War and Peace)
Freedom is Slavery!
Ignorance is Strength!
Big Brother shall never die! Big Brother is Watching You! (To prove my love, I’m not watching Big Brother.) (Haaah, I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t do that anyway.)
I love Big Brother!
I’m not even sure if any of these words are supposed to exist anymore, what with Newspeak and all, but I certainly hope they are enough to convey the depth of my devotion to you, Big Brother, and all the principles of Ingsoc and that please please please don’t send me to Room 101.
With the final season of Fringe starting on Sept. 28 (that’s only almost two weeks away, squeeeee!), I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Well, not as much as I think about Walter and Peter, because one is a genius mad scientist and the other is the hot son of a genius mad scientist, and also not as much as I think about Olivia, because she looks so good in a suit , or as much as I think about Astrid because she’s just so pretty, but more than I think about, say, lichen.
Also, I know there’s more than one Observer and you’ve probably got a name, except you come from the future so maybe they don’t have names anymore? Maybe they just have ID numbers or something? Anyway, you probably have a name or an ID number or whatever, but to me, you’ll always be the Observer, because you were the first and also the nicest. I mean, you don’t seem to be dead set on enslaving humanity in the future, like the rest of your associates, which I think is pretty nice.
Not to mention you’re always hanging out with my good TV friends Walter and Peter and Olivia and Astrid. (I feel like I should stop saying “not to mention” and then mentioning the thing, but I’m afraid if I do stop, then all my paragraphs will start with “also.”) I think they’re great, what with the way they travel to alternate universes and have telekinetic powers and great hair (hi, Astrid! I love your hair!) and sometimes get to be badass (hi, Astrid! I loved the way you hurt all those bad guys last season, right before one shot you in the gut!).
And you obviously think they’re great too, which means we have that in common, so that could be something we could talk about while we’re dating.
Oh, did I forget to say we should be dating, Observer? I meant to say that.
We should be dating, Observer.
For one thing (and this is a thing that’s in addition to that thing I mentioned earlier, about how awesome the Fringe team is and how much I wish they were my real friends, except I’d've probably gotten disintegrated in some horrible parallel universe cross-dimensional murder by now, so I guess I’m OK with them being fictional), all the extra spices in my cupboard that I hardly ever use, I could totally use when cooking for you, because being from the future makes you have no sense of taste (for some reason). Seriously, there’s this thing of chipotle power in my cupboard right now that is just going to waste, and I wouldn’t mind dumping it on some mashed potatoes. For you, Observer.
Plus, you look good in a fedora. (Or is that a trilby?)
Anyway, when we get married, we should invite Walter and Peter and Olivia and Astrid to our wedding, and maybe even Agent Broyles and Nina. Ooooh, and also everybody’s alternate selves from the parallel universe, and also William Bell, because he’s secretly Leonard Nimoy.
In fact, I’ll get started on the invitations now.
Dear Milligan (a character in The Mysterious Benedict Society, the books I’m currently reading to my daughter),
I love you.
Sure, part of it is because everybody else is so damned wholesome and sweet, because you live in a children’s book, but the other part of it is because you are the Batman of said children’s books. Actually, that’s the biggest part of it, because who doesn’t love Batman?
There are many wonderful things about you, from the way you wear disguises while kicking ass to the way you sometimes don’t wear disguises while kicking ass. Also, you seem to be pretty good with kids, which is awesome, because did I mention I’m reading your books to my daughter right now? Also, I’m pretty immature, so there’s that, too.
Now, I know you’re pretty busy what with going off on your secret spy missions and protecting the group of children under your care and kicking serious ass, but I hope you’d be able to make the time for a candlelit dinner. Or, if not that, maybe we could bomb a warehouse together? I mean an evil warehouse, of course, because lately I’ve been trying to use my powers for good. Or at least mediocrity.
Anyway, I’m up for a secret mission or two if you are! We could kick so much ass together, or you could, and I could try to stay out of the way and not get hit by any flying debris or murder pencils or whatever.
I’ll be waiting to hear from you!
Dear Michael Fassbender’s character in anything,
I love you. I love you because you look like Michael Fassbender, sound like Michael Fassbender and, if Smell-o-Vision comes into existence someday, you also smell like Michael Fassbender.
(Note to inventors: Please, please, please don’t invent Smell-O-Vision.)
For instance, Michael Fassbender’s character in Shame: I love you for your sex addiction, because you are a guy who looks like Michael Fassbender who has a sex addiction.
For another instance, Michael Fassbender’s character in X-Men: First Class: I love you for your young Magneto-ness, which includes the ability to annoy me less than James McAvoy by looking and acting like Michael Fassbender.
And for the most recent instance, Michael Fassbender’s character in Prometheus: I love you because you’re an android that someone designed to look like Michael Fassbender because of course they would do that who wouldn’t?
So, Michael Fassbender’s character in anything: I love you. Let’s all get married.
Dear Daniel Grayson (from TV’s Revenge),
I know that you’re already engaged and all, but I want you to know that I love you much more than your fiancee will ever do.
There are several reasons I believe this, and they are as follows:
First off: I’m not actively seeking revenge against your family for the horrible crimes they have committed against my father. Any horrible crimes committed against my father are surely a result of his own somewhat evil nature and, thus, are entirely deserved. Also, I don’t think your parents know my father, because they’re fictional and he’s not. I mean, at least according to what my mom tells me.
Secondly: While Emily Thorne (and is that even her real name? Actually, it’s not, but you don’t know that. Or didn’t, until you read this love letter, I guess) has buckets of her own money and doesn’t need to marry into wealth, I have no money of my own and definitely wouldn’t mind marrying into wealth. Especially your wealth, ya big lug!
Thirdly: You’ve noticed she has feelings for her old crush from when she was a kid, right? Well, my crush from when I was a kid is a used car salesman, and hasn’t gotten any taller since the fifth grade (errr … not that that’s a dig at your own height issues, of course. Thanks to your excessive wealth and charm, I’m quite willing to overlook your shrimpiness [suspiciously enough, your IMDb page doesn't even mention your height, so I can only assume you are teeny]), so I’ve got no feelings for him. None! Heck, I can barely remember that guy’s name! Mr. Former-crush-now-car-salesman or something, I think.
Fourth of all: You are just so cute, with the way you don’t realize how utterly evil your parents are and how your fiancee is a total con artist and the way your best friend was also a con artist who was psychotic and tried to murder you.
I mean, you’re just so trusting! That’s adorable, Daniel Grayson, and I respect it. (Respect it or “will use it against you,” either way.)
Fifthmost: I mentioned I’d be willing to marry you for your money, right?
Sixth of all: Even though the murder charges against you have been dropped, you’re still a bit of a pariah in the social world of the Hamptons, which is great, because then we could just hang out at your place and play video games all day and not worry about all that schmoozing and revenging that your current fiancee would like to be up to.
So, there you go, Daniel Grayson. A mostly coherent list about why I love you more than your current, eviiiiiil fiancee who is totally using you for her own ends. Please consider my bid to be your betrothed.
Dear Dr. John Hamish Watson,
I have various and sundry reasons for loving you, not the least of which is because you are Sherlock Holmes’ best friend, and Sherlock Holmes is a god among fictional characters, making you, like, the Jesus of fictional characters or something. (The analogy kind of ran away with me there.) Also, you’re loyal, good with a gun, apparently irresistible to women and on occasion you look like Martin Freeman or Jude Law.
In addition to that, you’d satisfy my mother’s desire that, since it appears I won’t be making a success of myself, I marry a doctor, while at the same time annoying my mother because, really, you’re not that successful of a doctor, plus you’re always off gallivanting around with that consulting detective fellow.
In any case (heh, case), I’d like you to consider my proposal seriously, for these reasons:
1) I promise not to be jealous of the time you spend with your best buddy Sherlock Holmes as long as you promise to get me his autograph;
2) Or maybe, instead of his autograph, we could all three hang out? That would be nice;
3) Or if you’ve got something else to do, I’m amenable to solving crimes with the man while you’re busy;
4) And if that’s not cool, then could you just pretend not to notice when I follow you guys around London?
And 5) and most importantly: I will never, never write any slash fiction about you and Sherlock Holmes. I promise that so hard, Dr. John Watson, you just don’t even know.
Please consider me as a candidate for your second or fifth or whatever bride, Dr. John Watson. I do love you. Really. Just not quite as much as Sherlock Holmes.
Look, I know you’re trapped in some crazy boarding school in a comic book and all, but I think we could be really great together. Sure, you’re much too young for me, but I’m really immature. I mean, I’m so immature I propose marriage to fictional characters! That’s immaturity, right? (Or mental illness?) So, see, it’s cool! Your youth, my immaturity: boom. Match made in heaven.
Also, Jun, and this is very important, you are the sort of character who is here to kick ass and chew bubblegum and you’re all out of bubblegum. I love that sort of character. That sort of character is great, mostly because of all the ass-kicking they do.
In addition to all these things (or just the one thing, I guess), you are also drawn as a very attractive Japanese boy. Squee! I love very attractive Japanese anythings, from kimono to sake to men.
In conclusion, I’m still feeling a little wrong about proposing marriage to a teenaged boy (trapped in a crazy boarding school), so I just want you to know: I’m willing to wait. So, please, contact me when you’re in your early 20s or so (provided you survive your experience at the crazy boarding school, and provided technology has advanced enough so that fictional characters can contact us out here in the real world) and we’ll meet up for some yakisoba or something.