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Arctic Monkeys,

Boys, boys, boys.  Look.  From the very inception of ‘Arctic Monkeys’ and down the rocky road of band life no doubt fitted with potholes of woe and despair, all the way to this, the 61st year of our Queen’s (might I say rather successful?) reign, you have inspired in your fans a deep sense of camaraderie, of little stick figure cutouts holding hands, of near constant creamery.  That is to say I, for one, cream myself a little every time my ear catches the twang of the guitar (Hey, there, electric) or the bam bam bam of the drums.

Being like Ingrid Bergman (that is to say, of course, low maintenance), all I require is the rhythm, man. Give me that sweet and low down bass and percussion and you’ve found yourself a happy woman.  Really, look no further, kids.  Oh, blub blub blub, who will love me?  This kid.  

National Geographic,

Give me the names of your photographers and I’ll give you one eager bunny ripe for harvest time. Truly, you keen-eyed rascals, if ever you find yourselves in need of a cute face to assist you in your travels, this kid’s available. And this kid’s got some sisters - or some brothers, if you so choose (and you can choose whatever you like, you sweet faces) - that also look upon your work with the utmost admiration. If you choose to decline this offer I won’t hold it against you (but, please, feel free to hold it against me) just know that wherever you go - whether to deepest Africa or the golden shores of California - I’ll be there. The Tower of London? I’ll be there. The Great Coral Reef? Yes, that’ll be my corpse on the sea floor (No, I can’t swim but just take me to your ship and I’m sure a little mouth to mouth will do just fine.) In conclusion, National Geographic Photographers, you slender-fingered beauties, you know what I want. Now give a girl a chance and instead of whiling away those lonesome nights on the rough terrain of the Gobi you’ll be getting a little rough with my Gobi.