(no subject)
I think this may have to be longer.
By Megan Wilson
Opinion Editor
Dear Ms. Simpson,
Last year, after your first traumatic appearance on Saturday Night Live, I became disillusioned. “How could she be fake?” I asked myself many times, and I tried to let myself move on. You were my idol. I too had been standing in the shadows of someone else’s dream.
Sure, I don’t have an older, more successful, way more gorgeous sibling who has a hottie spouse - but I totally understand your need to differentiate yourself. On top of all that, being natural blondes, we’re pretty much twins.
My dream was simple. I didn’t want to be a famous singer with a string of prettier-than-me boyfriends and my own reality show; I just simply wanted to pull off brown hair. That’s right. I am a blonde girl, standing in the giant epicenter that is our brunette-dominated society. The blonde jokes never end; but, regrettably, I’m too pale for Herbal Essences color “Hazelnut Delight.” Ashlee, I’ve always admired you for being able to pull it off.
But anyway, that isn’t my purpose for writing. My therapist says that I should apologize for all my past mistakes, in order to move on in the future. So, I wanted to let you know that my dumping you for Hillary Duff was completely a phase. I mean, she looked like the perfect person to focus my entire array of complex, and occasionally obsessive, emotions on. But then she became totally anorexic and started hanging out with the guys from Good Charlotte all the time. Ew, right? They’re so 2002 that it’s disgusting.
On Saturday, October 8th, 2005, I tuned in to the Saturday Night Live where, as advertised, you would definitely be singing live - and not with the aid of a tape. Could it be that my true idol had returned? Back at the scene of the crime, restored to your natural color of platinum blonde, and clad in a schoolgirl-gone-goth ensemble you sang a song you wrote after the first experience on SNL.
The appearance was meant to not only avenge your lip synching blunder, but also to promote “I Am Me,” your new album, which drops on October 18th. After watching the 90 minute episode, and having time to process both performances, I decided that I liked you better when you were fake.
As heir to the Milli Vanilli throne, you had so much harnessed potential. Now that you’re actually doing live shows, your band thrashes around three times as much just to prove that they’re actually playing - to the point that it’s actually detrimental to the performance. Also, the random guttural noises you make in attempt to be “live” are in no way entertaining. Seriously.
So I have two options: beg you to go back to being the train wreck America has come to love to hate - or start worshipping Britney Spears’ new spawn Sean Preston Federline. Someone has to beat the Christmas rush.
[ edit/addition ] I hope this isn't too harsh, but it's not me, it's you. No, really. It's you. I've come to terms with the fact that I take everything I read in US Weekly too seriously; but, in this past year I've also experienced a sense of personal growth that, in essence, has led me to better appreciate the simple things in life. One of those things, of course, being vanity at the sacrifice of personal integrity.
I would like to thank you, though, because it was because of your immense blunder that I could even have this gigantic epiphany.
But please, for the sake of everyone involved, stick with what you know: riding on people's coattails.
Signed with love,
Megan Wilson
By Megan Wilson
Opinion Editor
Dear Ms. Simpson,
Last year, after your first traumatic appearance on Saturday Night Live, I became disillusioned. “How could she be fake?” I asked myself many times, and I tried to let myself move on. You were my idol. I too had been standing in the shadows of someone else’s dream.
Sure, I don’t have an older, more successful, way more gorgeous sibling who has a hottie spouse - but I totally understand your need to differentiate yourself. On top of all that, being natural blondes, we’re pretty much twins.
My dream was simple. I didn’t want to be a famous singer with a string of prettier-than-me boyfriends and my own reality show; I just simply wanted to pull off brown hair. That’s right. I am a blonde girl, standing in the giant epicenter that is our brunette-dominated society. The blonde jokes never end; but, regrettably, I’m too pale for Herbal Essences color “Hazelnut Delight.” Ashlee, I’ve always admired you for being able to pull it off.
But anyway, that isn’t my purpose for writing. My therapist says that I should apologize for all my past mistakes, in order to move on in the future. So, I wanted to let you know that my dumping you for Hillary Duff was completely a phase. I mean, she looked like the perfect person to focus my entire array of complex, and occasionally obsessive, emotions on. But then she became totally anorexic and started hanging out with the guys from Good Charlotte all the time. Ew, right? They’re so 2002 that it’s disgusting.
On Saturday, October 8th, 2005, I tuned in to the Saturday Night Live where, as advertised, you would definitely be singing live - and not with the aid of a tape. Could it be that my true idol had returned? Back at the scene of the crime, restored to your natural color of platinum blonde, and clad in a schoolgirl-gone-goth ensemble you sang a song you wrote after the first experience on SNL.
The appearance was meant to not only avenge your lip synching blunder, but also to promote “I Am Me,” your new album, which drops on October 18th. After watching the 90 minute episode, and having time to process both performances, I decided that I liked you better when you were fake.
As heir to the Milli Vanilli throne, you had so much harnessed potential. Now that you’re actually doing live shows, your band thrashes around three times as much just to prove that they’re actually playing - to the point that it’s actually detrimental to the performance. Also, the random guttural noises you make in attempt to be “live” are in no way entertaining. Seriously.
So I have two options: beg you to go back to being the train wreck America has come to love to hate - or start worshipping Britney Spears’ new spawn Sean Preston Federline. Someone has to beat the Christmas rush.
[ edit/addition ] I hope this isn't too harsh, but it's not me, it's you. No, really. It's you. I've come to terms with the fact that I take everything I read in US Weekly too seriously; but, in this past year I've also experienced a sense of personal growth that, in essence, has led me to better appreciate the simple things in life. One of those things, of course, being vanity at the sacrifice of personal integrity.
I would like to thank you, though, because it was because of your immense blunder that I could even have this gigantic epiphany.
But please, for the sake of everyone involved, stick with what you know: riding on people's coattails.
Signed with love,
Megan Wilson