An Open Letter To Courtney Love

Dear Court,

I’m sorry you’re a Psycho with a capital P. It sucks, and I wish that things could have turned out differently for you and Frances Bean. When I think of all the mother/daughter photo shoots the two of you are missing out on, I well up. My heart is heavy thinking of all the couture that will never know what it’s like to grace your spiky little collarbones while you cradle your daughter who smiles knowingly at Steven Meisel as he photographs you both for Vogue Italia. It’s a tragedy, really. I know what it’s like to grow up without a true blue mom. I even lived with my grandmother for awhile, and no matter how much Creme de la Mer (and Ativan) I stole from her medicine cabinet, it never filled the void that not having a mother left in my heart. Sure, on the outside I was relaxed and my complexion was flawless, but on the inside I was super bummed that it wasn’t my mom’s medicine cabinet, you know? What am I saying? You don’t know. You’re probably asleep right now.

I used to want to be you. My senior quote was “Someday you will ache like I ache.” For my high school graduation party, I had my maid/bff, Mabinty, cast an ancient Jamaican spell on me in an attempt to become possessed by your spirit. I don’t remember much, but I do recall throwing up a lot, and hissing at anyone who came within 10 feet of me. In retrospect, I think it worked. I hadn’t been drinking or anything, but I woke up the next day with a raging hangover. It was not chic, and my boyfriend broke up with me soon after, so fuck you for that. Also, fuck you for fucking with Frances Bean so much. She is amazing, and engaged to a musician who’s super hot but not hotter than she is. You should be proud! But instead you’re acting like…well…you.

The point is, you need to Google pictures of yourself from your chic, Versace-wearing, Golden Globe nominated Actress phase. Then you need to look in the mirror, and ask yourself: where did that Courtney go? Do you have a storage unit of all your old clothes? If so, perhaps you should pay that storage unit a visit, bring a joint and have yourself a little “remember when” fashion moment. Impromptu storage unit visits always help me get my shit together. Also, maybe take a long bath with Lavender-infused epsom salts, then call a rehab facility? I’m just spitballing here. Ultimately, it’s your life. I just don’t want Madonna to have the last laugh.

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