And by love letter, I mean I want to fist fight with you in a parking lot, high school style.
Alright, yeah, I did go through the Danity Kane phase because that’s when I was single and liked to dance around a lot with my girlfriends, and you guys had some catchy tunes. You opened for Christina Aguilera when I finally got off my ass to go see her, and you didn’t lip sync, so I was like “Cool, whatever, I guess I don’t hate any of these reality-turned-pop star bitches even though my intellect totally wants me to.”
You vanished from my consciousness as fast as your band did from the media’s eye. I don’t even have your tracks selected on my iTunes anymore because I kind of don’t want to be reminded of you. Your band is one of those “I’ll listen to it with my BFFs when we’re drunk and feeling nostalgic for crazy” kind of things. DK isn’t even tied to anything in my past that means, well, anything because you and your chick back-ups were reserved for nights of black-out drinking.
I happened upon you again when my boyfriend started to record Celebrity Apprentice. Aside from finding the show extremely out of character for J, I decided to watch. Hey, if he likes it, maybe there’s something there aside from an extremely laughable combover in a board room.
And there was. There is. It’s you. And I don’t mean that in the same way as I do your co-stars. I want to snuggle Arsenio Hall and Clay Aiken and their bromance close to my bosom. I want to become Dayana Mendoza’s best gal pal because she’s the cutest motherfucker I’ve ever seen. I want to punch Debbie Gibson in the nose, sure, but you take the blood-boiling cake. You are the craziest bitch I have never met in my life, including but not limited to a pool of women like your co-HBIC, Lisa Lampanelli.
Last night as we were catching up on our not-so-guilty pleasure, I had to soothe J from throwing the remote into our TV, more accurately at the precise spot your face was appearing. You set us off into discussions about two-faced women that last the entire two hour duration of your show, impressing us more and more each moment with your unfaltering capacity for selfishness. You think you are the queen of the world, but I don’t think I even have to take the time to say you’re not.
Not only do you look like you were born and raised on the runways of a gentlemen’s club, you stand for literally everything I don’t like about mankind. Talk about a gal who needs to read everyone’s Everything Card! You are egocentric and cruel, with zero regard to meaning what you say. I hope you’re sobbing on your couch over a tub of ice cream, crying your shitty mascara off as you watch footage of yourself from this season of “reality” and realize what a suckage of resources you are.
So here’s to you, you orangey-red beast of plastic. I hope somewhere you’re stumbling around on your trashy lime-green stilettos, singing about yourself in the voice that’s a former shell of its once debatable glory, because I know no one else is. I guess when all you’ve got is yourself and your Playboy spread, you have to become your own BFF. Stay crazy, girl!