Be born a small girl baby. In an entirely different city. Carry on with your youth, go to college, drop out, shit around, and eventually get married to a nice guy. Remain married. Have a couple of kids.
Lack all manner of ambition and develop cellulite. Never travel to Chicago or Malibu – in fact remain at least two states away from Cusack locations at all times. Have no one in common.
Disavow all of Cusack’s pastimes such as snowboarding, ice hockey, and surfing. Instead eat leftover tres leches cake directly from its position on the third shelf of the refrigerator and grow your roots to the top of your ears.
Rent Cusack movies and comment aloud how much he needs you. Download Cusack photos and splice little pieces of yourself into them. Get up, go to work, come home. Get up, go to work, come home. Never break routine, and yet remain wholly confident that someday the knock on your red front door will be John, and he’ll be wearing a Pretenders t-shirt and cargo pants which will be fastened tightly around his ankles with rubber bands.
And he’ll find you all kinds of witty. He’s charmed by your sheer regularness – dog poops on the back porch and all. And he’s relieved you’re not skinny and nervous like all his past loves. Well maybe a little nervous.
And he’s so hangdog and puffy pale that even your husband won’t mind if you throw your suitcase in the trunk of Cusack’s Jag that second. And the kids – well, every other weekend in Malibu is sort of appealing, Right?