Hey casting couch superstar, we got the letter and we’re still laughing. You write, “When I grow up I want to break hearts on the big screen.” Dear star-crossed lover, I can’t keep my meals down and it’s all your fault. Capsular contracture. Superficial syringe liposculpture. There are such big words for such a small mouth. Mark. Speed. Action. Another trip to the surgeon. Another nip and tuck postcard. That’s all you are. And you expect me to care when, distressed, you write, “He said go clean yourself off now. He said take the twenty off the bed. He said remember you were never here. He said I never want to see you again.” You know the drill. It’s one for the money. Two for the money. Three for the money. Forever.