I love you, Angie, which is why I need to do this for you. I’m sorry. It’s for the best, really.

You’re gorgeous, baby, but you look stressed, and I know it’s not from the kids. You’re tired; you need a break from all that action. Yeah, I saw you dodge those bullets, and you are truly a mistress of disguise. But I can see right through those badass tattoos, and all this “saving the world” nonsense is clouding your brain. Get out, Angie, and be a sweetheart for me, for Hollywood.

You can’t always play the dominant female. I want you to be an innocent victim of love, Angie.

I want to see you cry, baby. I want to see you hurting in a corner. I want to see you in a heavy sweatshirt with mascara running down your face, nursing a bottle of Jack because some asshole broke your heart. I want to see you on the phone sobbing to your closest girlfriend, sitting in a sea of used tissues.

I want to see you bounce back from that horrible break-up with a renewed sense of yourself. I want to hear you tell a funny joke. I want to see you acting adorable with pigtail braids in your hair. I want to see you paint your bedroom a vibrant color and playfully get it all over your clothes and face. I want to see you trip on the dance floor and slap your forehead with embarrassment and a coy smile. I want to see you accidentally send a flirtatious e-mail meant for your coworker to everyone in the office.

I want you to have a love interest who isn’t wielding a gun and a briefcase full of stolen cash. I want you to fall hard for a goofy guy, played by Paul Rudd or John Krasinski. I want him to confess his love to you outside a bar in the rain on a moped. Or on swings in the backyard of a friend’s house where you were just playing cribbage. Or in his car when he’s dropping you off at your duplex, after a song comes on the radio that reminds him of you.

Do you have any songs about you, Angie? Because all that comes to mind is heavy metal, and that won’t work. Does that make you sad? I’m sorry. Don’t cry, baby.

I want you to be average yet interesting, like the “girl next door.” I want you to wear cute sundresses that hit just above the knees. I want you to wear little, striped cardigans with boyfriend tees so we can’t see your cleavage. In fact, I want your boobs to look squashy and flat. I want your cheeks to be rosy, Angie. I don’t want you to wear a garter or carry a pistol in one. Are you getting all this?

I want the world to love you and forget that you seduced a married man. Most importantly, I want you to love you, Angie.

–Heidi Thomasoni realizes this would be a horrible movie.

Photo by Gage Skidmore and Columbia Pictures.