An Open Letter to Sarah from Love Actually, to Be Delivered In the Two Seconds Before She Answers Her Phone for the Second Time While Karl Is Tenderly Dry Humping Her

Dear Sarah,

What—and I cannot stress this enough—dafuq?

That could be the whole letter, as it really captures the essence of the white-hot, slightly horny rage I feel every time I watch you cockblock yourself with that fucking Nokia, but I honestly feel bad for you, so I’ll spell it out.

YOU SHOULD TURN OFF YOUR PHONE AND FUCK KARL.

Oh my god, girl, how is this even a choice you are weighing??? Here is what we know about your mentally ill brother: He is in some kind of safe, secure facility with professionals to take care of him (and, apparently, give him unlimited phone time). Here is what we know about Karl: He is BURNING LAVA HOT, and his crotch is currently pressed—gently, consensually—against your leg.

Let me set the stakes here: Your brother is [sad trombone noise] and Karl is [a-hoooooo-ga horn]. Your brother is fine, but Karl is foine. If Karl were the last wing on Hot Ones, everyone on that show would die. Karl has a high-level design job and dresses like a J. Crew model, but he clearly spends all of his free time at the gym because [groans, bites fist] girl, those shoulders! Those pecs! Those soulful brown eyes! There is not a heterosexual woman alive who can watch this scene without reflexively starting to kegel. Karl is by far the best character in this ridiculous movie, because he barely speaks and has no personality other than damnnnnn. Karl is unproblematic and stays in his lane, wearing sensual sweaters and glasses that are so delicate I bet I could break them with my thighs. Karl is also someone you have allegedly been in love with for years, so maybe, just this once, you could let someone else listen to your brother talk about the Illuminati while you take an all-expenses-paid trip to Pound Town? After all, as we’re reminded every ten fucking seconds, it’s Christmas. Treat yourself to some (hopefully unspotted) dick.

I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, so I’ll assume that the blood rushing from your brain to your vulva fast enough to beat Usain Bolt in the hundred-meter dash has prevented you from thinking clearly at this juncture. Maybe you think you’re dreaming? Maybe hearing that ear-splitting ringtone twice in a row triggered a minor seizure, not big enough to do lasting damage but intense enough for you to forget about Karl’s raging boner for two critical seconds—two seconds in which, perhaps, you heard the faint, dreamy echo of faraway screams, the screams of millions of viewers, lunging from their couches and beds in slow-motion, faces flushed and eyes fixed on Karls’ glistening bicep, arm outreached as if to penetrate the screen they are watching and destroy your shitty little phone with their bare hands.

Or maybe you’re worried that getting your brain fucked out by Karl will mess up your plot line because you are supposed to be the resident martyr, Our Lady of Perpetual Blue Balls, who balances out the porn set meet-cute and the snowy Wisconsin orgy with a sobering tale of virtuous celibacy. Your entire character arc is being an odd and pitiable loner, the kind of person who goes up to random hotties at weddings to ask them if they’re gay for the groom. The main thing we know about you is that you absolutely must answer your phone any time it rings, so much so that your boss has to specifically instruct you to turn it off so that you can have a special meeting in which he tells you to PLEASE FUCK KARL. (By the way, you should probably report that to HR, but not right now. Right now is for riding Karl like you’re going for gold in the Kentucky Derby.) The point is, your life seems sad, and you deserve nice things. Like to sit on Karl’s face.

Perhaps your hesitation is out of concern for your long-suffering brother. I don’t have time to start a relationship, you might be thinking. My brother takes up all of my emotional energy. What would happen if Karl and I start dating and get married and—okay. Let me stop you right there. Karl is not going to be your boyfriend. Let’s be real. He literally has no personality. The film heavily suggests that you two have been obsessed with each other for years based solely on vibes despite never having had a single conversation. And when you do interact, he speaks exactly thirteen lines of dialogue, eight of which are three words or less. Karl is not in this movie for any reason other than to rail you. Karl is one step up from a sex doll. Karl, like most of the secondary characters in Love Actually, just bangs out one note over and over, like some horrible toy monkey endlessly clapping its cymbals, and his one note is best expressed with an eggplant emoji.

What do you do when your phone rings in other inconvenient situations? Do you bring it into the bathroom? The movie theater? Would you answer it mid–Pap smear? Does your brother ever sleep? Does your phone battery ever die? Do you ever fantasize about throwing into the Thames and starting a new life, preferably a life in which you rip off Karl’s tailored blazer and slowly lick the contours of his chiseled abs? Can’t you just lie and say you missed the call because you had explosive diarrhea? Or that you were on speakerphone with the Pope and Jon Bon Jovi? I mean, seriously, you’ve got options here. We’re all rooting for you. We know you’re a very dedicated, if toxically codependent sister. We get that you’re a good person. But we’re all holding space for you to get screwed six ways to Sunday.

So please, for all of us out here watching, Sarah, I’m begging you. Silence that phone, and fuck, actually.