Dear Katie, **
So, I'm sitting here in typical DFA deep thinking mode (can of diet coke, 100 calorie pack of choc chip cookie slivers and 2 vicodin) [kidding my little ponies, I WISH].
I'm sitting here, in the same place I sit every night. And I'm armed with this vid of you above singing and dancing during your upcoming guest spot on Eli Stone. This should be p-l-e-n-t-y of ammo to get me all lubed up and goin as per u. But for some crazy fucking reason, I got nothing.
The snark is not coming.
I mean, you def look kinda weird, and you bop your head very awkwardly, and though you're normally a pretty girl, you're not lookin particularly pretty...and yet I can't really "get it up" anymore than that.
I need a Viagra.
I think I'm actually having trouble making fun of your singing voice, and your horrendous hairdo, and your lame dancing because (gulp), I've kinda been feeling bad for you these days.
I mean, who could have imagined!?
You start this bizarro, staged, totally fake relationship with Tom Cruise (sign papers-n-everything, yo!), get your ass artificially inseminated with L. Ron Hubbard's sperm (since hello? we all know Tom's gay), let yourself get sucked into that Scientology bullshit, and now you're in so deep you probs couldn't even point to Capeside on a motherfucking map. All in an effort to catapult yourself to superstardom through osmosis.
But then your fake husband Tom Cruise went batshit crazy...and made Brooke Shields cry...and lost his production deal...and now everybody hates him.
And this is what you're left with.
It's no wonder you started recording secret confessionals in your closet.
Anyway, this Eli Stone thing totally sucked.
That's all I really got.
"I don't wanna wait, for our lives to be o-ver,"