Jake Gyllenhaal and I...

A story of broken backs, broken dreams and broken flowers.

Bea [Arthur] and I were just chillaxing with Tom [Ford] and [Rosie Perez] one night, digging into the weed crate and rolling fat L after fat L, when suddenly the conversation turned to regrets. Regrets about love, life, career, whatever have you. Turns out Bea always wished she had cold-cocked Lucille Ball when she had the chance on the set of Mame. Tom regretted bedding Andy Warhol instead of Debbie Harry during a particularly coked out night at 54 when he was only 19. And Rosie regretted not getting in on the ground floor with J. Lo while she was slumming it on "In Living Color." Obviously, understandable. Then the bong came to me. I've lived a long and rich life, thankfully filled with few regrets. Yet there is one that haunts the recesses of my mind to this day.

It was a cool day. The wind was silent yet occasionally made its presence felt. We had been having marathon sex now, for about 137 hours. Jake and I. Hopped up off crystal meth and love, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. The day was absolute perfection. I noticed a change in the air, though. It was subtle, yet it was most definitely a change. Then that awful sound. The sound of bare, unwashed feet smacking crudely against pedestrian sidewalks. Of sagging breasts flapping up and down against an otherwise skeletal chest. The sound of an $800 Zac Posen original worn incongruously with leggings and a sloppy ponytail. An Olsen? A Lohan? God forbid, a Kimbirly Stewart! No, none of the above.

Dunst.

A soused Kirsten Dunst barreled her way into our love nest, knocking over several dozens of dollars worth of Target home essentials in her bony, untalented wake. She made a B-line for Jake and he clung to my lapel so tightly, staring at me with those puppy dog eyes of his. Without a word I knew what he wanted and what he did not. 'Don't let me go with the bad lady!' I stood, ready to fight for the man whom I loved, but Dunst only laughed. And I have never heard such a sound. It was as if the pits of hell had opened up and begun the chorus to "Save the Best for Last."

Before I knew it, he was gone. And so was she. Vanished into a fog of Swarovski crystals and tanning lotion. I don't know what had happened, but I still regret that day.

If only...if only I could have stopped her some how. Dangled a bottle of vodka in front of her face, anything! But alas, I was too slow and too powerless to save him. Now I can only see the only man I've ever loved without a condom--not including those sailors during Fleet Week, though it sure was love at the time--on TV, in movies and in the occasional photo, like the one above. It still hurts to talk about it.

But mark my words, Kirsten Dunst! You will pay and pay dearly!