My Dearest Britney Spears:

Listen, I was beginning to get a little more respect for you since I watched your Behind the Music special on VH1. You really are just celebrating being a woman; you didn't realize that nude, skin tight ensemble of yours would create such controversy, you just wanted to wear something sparkly and feminine!

Kissing Madonna really was completely spontaneous, and while kissing another girl was interesting -- you probably wouldn't do it again.

You're looking into the Kabbalah and have started therapy. You've been experimenting with techno, wigs, and Colin Farrell. You even got brown highlights. I mean, this is deep shit here.

I was really starting to think you actually had some credibility and that your entire career wasn't centered around shamelessly marketing yourself out to the masses just because you could.

I was even beginning to change my fantasy of "one time only, hot, lesbian, celebrity hook up" with you to "snuggly, unsuspecting romance."

But we've got to talk about this HBO concert you just did.

Let's start with witty banter.

Now, there are two fundamental parts of this winning concept, one being the "witty" and the second being the "banter."

You've got the banter thing down, honey. But so do most schizophrenics.

Witty is something that you are not, and that is okay. You dated Justin Timberlake, so that is okay. It may take some extensive introspection and group therapy for you to face this painful truth of your nature -- but it needs to happen.

I appriciate your efforts to "rework" your old, tinny pop hits; but cabaret-style renditions of "Baby One More Time" and "Oops! I did it again!"?!

Please, baby, once was enough -- you don't need to do it again.

I mean, it's all fine and sultry until I remember that the song you're singing is in fact, "Baby One More Time."

Our relationship is really on the skids now, Brit. I could only watch three songs of your concert, progressively lowering the volume and eventually just watching it horror-movie style (on mute, through finger shrouded eyes).

I don't think I'll ever be able to masturbate to you look at you the same way.

Now I have to go watch Death of a Salesman to even out my intelligence.

I am going to be up so late tonight and it's all your fault.

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