Farewell, Ms. Spears

Dear Britney,

It's taken me quite some time to gather the courage to write this, so I hope you read the whole thing. Because I remember when we were together, you would stop reading when you came across big words like "across". In this context, across means "encountered". Anyway, do you remember when it started? You were a minor in 32 states at the time, and yes, that's kind of creepy now that I think about it. But my love is controlled not by chronological sequences, or by how people have different ages--nay, it is controlled by how earnestly I wanted to get with you. But let's forget about that for a moment. Let's talk about how you promised me forever, and then went on and did other things. Many other things. "Things" means "guys" in this context.

First, there was Justin, which I accepted. But only because I knew you two had been friends on the Mickey Mouse Club, 2 pm weekdays on Nickolodeon. Then your relationship turned into something disgusting and base, like who could do the moonwalk better. Well, I guess we all know what happened with that. Justin is now clearly better at the moonwalk, while you can't even walk across the room without chafing your thighs. I'm not trying to be mean, but recently they have become quite pudgy. I know you’re preggers, but come on.

Now we have your precious Kevin Federline, or simply K-Fed, as I like to call him. I call him that because I harbor no ill will towards him. It is not he who now has porky pig thighs. It is not he who has betrayed my trust and gone a-whoring behind my back. It is not he who looked me straight in the eye and then did the metaphorical equivalent of a surgeon doing a heart transplant on someone, but then not actually finishing the transplant. So the end result is that the person is left with no heart. I agree, that metaphor could use a re-write. But my point remains valid—it’s not Kevin who is the problem here, he is merely a homeless person who's good at breakdancing. Which is why I assumed you were with him only to forget about me, or to drive me nearly out of my mind with jealousy. Well, mission accomplished, my fickle young flower. Mission accomplished.

Britney Spears-Ryan. The name that destiny gave you, and by coincidence, the same name you've rejected like last month's 'smoky eyes' mascara look. Just weeks ago, that look was very popular among promiscuous pop stars such as you, and it's still popular, but not as popular. That's how I feel. Popular, but not as popular as I might feel if you weren't sharing it all over town. The point is, you have destroyed me. And now you're carrying K-Fed's child, a man who looks like a ferris wheel operator with a stylish beanie.

So I'm through living a lie. I can't stick around while you marry, and then become impregnated by, each of your backup dancers in succession. Or maybe one more dancer after this one, but that would be my absolute limit. That’s right, I need to start taking care of me. Speaking of, I believe Hillary Duff is now legal, or close enough. And she may not know of my existence, but notice how I said "may". It's also possible that she does know, and loves me fiercely. More than you ever did. Plus, it becomes obvious that there's no room in your uterus for a second child (mine) at this late stage in the game, not to mention, such a scenario is probably medically impossible. I don't want my child in there competing with Kevin's anyway. It's unhealthy. So stop calling. I have moved on, and I won't let you back into my heart--which is still lying next to the operating table. Remember from earlier, I was talking about that?