Those who are victims of intense unrequited celebrity love AND Those who are not

Today is the best day of my life. It marks the anniversary of an event that would result in the most intense, passionate, wild-eyed, manic depressive sort of love I would never actually experience in life.

Today is Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday.

In the past week, amateurish publications like Time, Newsweek, and Rolling Stone have demonstrated their ignorance of Bob Dylan. They pretend to understand the clout of his God-like perfection when “honoring” him with their long-winded articles about his “prophetic lyrical genius” and “legendary presence” in the music industry.

In my spare time, I draw pictures he will never see! *giggle* Isn't he cute?

They are fools.

Naïve in their feeble attempts to encompass Bob Dylan.

Pathetic in their ignorance of the fact that no matter how many pages and words they use to write a tribute to him, they will fail. Yes, fail to do him justice. You want to know why?

Because I am in love with Bob Dylan.

None of them understand him the way I do! None of them feel their heart flutter when they overhear a co-worker mention her grandson Dylan and his recurring toe fungus. None of them spent hours researching home made bomb recipes when Nick Jonas said that Bob Dylan can’t sing on national television. They do not know my Bobbykins, and they do not know love the way that I do.

Some of you – many of you – most of you are probably checking Craigslist Classifieds and Casual Encounters right now for a used but sanitary straight jacket to put me in. You will tell me I am sick, perverted, psychologically disturbed for wanting to bone a 70 year old man. But, there is a select population that will understand the intensity I feel in my heart and in my loins. Which brings me to our next category:

People who are victims of intense, unrequited, celebrity love and those who are not.

Many consider this sort of severe infatuation a cute phase that a young girl goes through during a segmented period of her life. A time when no real boy wants her and the only way she can feel emotionally and sexually satisfied is by making out with the back of her hand and imagining David Cassidy’s lips on hers. I am here to tell you, that is just a lie.

Ladies and gentlemen, stalker-like celebrity obsession is a prevalent part of regular adult life. Look around you and I guarantee you will find at least one, highly functioning adult who lives among the rest of us, struggling with this debilitating frustration of the heart.

This is not something a person simply “grows out” of! If anything it becomes worse overtime. What starts as an 11 year old girl’s cute habit of doodling Mrs. Justin Bieber all over her underwear, will turn into a 17 year old girl getting her boyfriend Sid’s name tattooed on her nether regions. This is a serious matter the divides the population of the world, person by delusional person.

Take a look at this future “16 and Pregnant” star!

Of course, not all individuals will experience such emotional turmoil. I am the only one of

my siblings who has ever experienced this. For years

Was THIS worth international public humiliation? WAS IT?

I felt alone… scared…helpless in my pursuit of real, live, human love that could replace the feelings I have for my little Bobsters. It wasn’t until I saw  this chick, a desperate, pathetic excuse for a human being, sobbing over infamous American Idol contestant, Sanjaya, that I realized I am not alone.

take a look at this freak!

Recent studies by a team of vague and unspecified researchers indicate that 1 in 5 adults suffer from what is known as Compulsive Celebrity Infatuation Disorder (CCID). Symptoms include manic and irrational behavior (as seen above), isolation from friends and family members who do not appreciate or understand the depth of your pain,  and the occasional loss of bowels, though that has yet to be backed by any legitimate research.

As a long time sufferer of CCID, I have struggled with my attempts to connect with those who have not been cursed with this condition. I have joined bowling leagues, established knitting circles, and participated in Calligraphy workshops, only to be ridiculed and looked down upon by the other sort. The sort that mocks, judges, and belittles my love. The sort who has never, and will never experience this kind of duress.

So today I ask all CCID sufferers to stand tall and stand proud. YOU ARE NOT ALONE! Remember, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. You are one blog comment away from a potentially normal life full of unhealthy, emotionally damaging relationships.*

Today is not only the most important day in human history.

But it is also the first day, of the rest of your life.

I love you all, you sick, twisted, psycho freaks.


The girl you want to be reincarnated as

*OKAY…let’s be honest. Commenting on this blog won’t help you. You will always be a puss-filled sore on the lip of society whose pathetic obsession with the unattainable will continue to be mocked and disparaged for years to come. You are probably better off sticking with your sick delusions than facing the fact that you are entirely undesirable and no one loves you. Just so we have that clear.

I still appreciate comments though!


About thegirlwiththeblog

At any given time I can be found moisturizing my elbows and searching for words that rhyme with orange.
This entry was posted in Bob Dylan Related Ramblings, Two Sorts of People in the World and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Those who are victims of intense unrequited celebrity love AND Those who are not

  1. Lisa says:

    Well, Lena,
    I KNEW you really had a thing for Bob Dylan, but not to this extent…

    Do you realize while he was singing of times a-changin’, you weren’t even on the radar of life yet? Ideally, he could be your grandpa…Yet, I DO understand where you’re coming from as far as total admiration, adulation, and even wanting to transcend into a Dylan-esque world of the 60’s and 70’s–even if you’ve only read about the era or heard stories from your parents.

    My long time love was James Cagney. Yup, I saw him as George M. Cohan in Yankee Doodle Dandy (a 1942 film which got him an Academy Award, by the way), and was totally mesmorized by his every move, action, and character.

    Just like you with Bob, I read everything on Cagney, saw ALL of his films, memorized his cinematic achievements, and even found out where he lived in semi-seclusion on Martha’s Vineyard. I even visited the island one summer and got only as far as the gate to his house–but I KNEW he was in there, probably painting, or working in an adjacent barn where he raised Morgan horses.

    I finally wrote to Cagney after I found out he was to receive a life achievement award from The American Film Institute. It was a letter that traveled from the Warner Brothers lot in Hollywood to his Martha’s Vineyard home.

    One year later on Valentine’s Day, I had the best day of MY life when I received a personal response from James Cagney. It was a typed postcard. The font was clearly from a 1922 Underwood manual typewriter with a cotton ribbon-and it even had “white-out” errors correcting the text. The note was short sweet, and personally autographed by the man himself!! On the opposite side of the postcard was a copy of an oil painting of posies he painted–just for ME!!! (Or at least I’d like to think so)

    So long story short, I KNOW the feeling; perhaps I can’t articulate it as well as you, nor do I really feel the need to let everyone know about my secret crush–but there was a time–a while back when I thought this guy was something special. Come to think of it, I still do!

  2. Magdalen says:

    I still despise Andy Rooney because he was the putz who revealed that the LOVE of my life, Charles Kuralt, was a chain smoker. (Yes, I’m superficial enough that I had a hard time fantasizing about a guy who was going to smell like the bottom of my parents’ ashtrays.)

    Mind you, Kuralt was also a schmuck with, in effect, two families, so that was a little hiccup in my passion, but let’s not get picky, shall we?

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