If you’re trying to kill me—no, erase that—bury me alive, kicking and screaming “MATTHEW FARRELL’S NAME IS FUCKING SACRED!!!” you almost did the job, you insensitive warts of fothermuckers! Justin Long?!? *shock* *gasp* Oh, my heart, my heart! *clutch*clutch* Oh, Jesus, let me breathe!!!
Let me tell you about my undying forever EVAAAAHH love for Matt Farrell of Judith McNaught’s Paradise, the reason I believe in romance, the man who has RUINED ME FOR ALL OTHERS. Aye. It’s because of him I spent my 18th birthday waiting for an extremely handsome, intensely sexual man wearing a borrowed tux—who’d tease me and dance with me slowly on the terrace—smile adoringly into my eyes and kiss me under an ancient elm tree when the fireworks started. Oh, my love, my darling!
It’s because of him I’ve yearned for a man who’d desire and love me BADLY, with EVERY fiber of his ENTIRE being; completely and absolutely. A man who’d feel that being in bed with me made him crazy with wanting; who’d say to me, his harsh voice in complete opposition to the poignancy of his words, “I’ve wanted you every day of my godforsaken life.” (Ohhh, Matt... I quiver!) A man who’d pursue me with disarming charm, woo me with tenacity, take me with CONSUMING passion and whisper lovingly to me, “If you’ll go to bed with me, I’ll give you the world. If you’ll move in with me, I’ll give you paradise on a golden platter. Anything you want—everything you want. I come with it, of course. It’s a package deal.” Oh, Matt... TAAAAAAKKKEE MEEEEEE!!! *sob*
This is why you, Die Hard writers, have committed a HORRIFYINGLY UNPARDONABLE SIN for naming a geeky, wimpy, scaredy, not so very handsome-y sidekick computer techie after MY Matthew Farrell! The horror—oh, the horror! *clutching my heart* *trying to breathe* Oh, you wound me so. So deep. I bleed. I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU. NEVEEEEERRR!!!!!