Dear Britney Spears,
When I was a twelve-year-old, frizzy-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, metal-mouthed pre-pubescent girl you were a god of sorts. Your perfection was astounding. Your hair was straight. Your skin was golden brown. Your smile was enchanting. All the boys on the bus wanted to do you.

I remember gazing longingly at your CD cover, praying to God I'd wake up and look like you. Please, God, I said, make me pretty and thin. Make me have trendy clothes and an innocent voice. I'll do anything.

Eight years later I am happy God kept me the way I am. I am glad I did not get married, pop out two babies, fall victim to mental illness and lose all control of my life. When I see your picture now, with your weave, bad eyeliner and perpetual vat of Starbucks coffee I think back to what you used to be and hope you can find yourself somewhere close to that very soon.

Britney, you are a classic American tragedy. You were royalty. You could do no wrong. We were entranced by your sexual energy yet now we have ripped you up and spit you you out. As much as I feel for you, I love to see you fail time and time again. It's terrible, I know, but it makes all the hardships in my life seem so negligible. You are the scapegoat for America's problems. You make the working middle class breath a sigh of relief--at least it ain't us. Thank you, Britney.