Dear Paula

Dear Paula Abdul,

Please:

-stop mashing up beef jerky until it looks like poo and leaving it in your wardrobe assistant's bed
-threaten to commit suicide because you can't design clothing for the Bratz dolls
-crying on cable television coz your "consultant" can't reroute blizzards and fly to New York to
write your interview answers for David Letterman

and respond to my fucking fan letter.



Yeah, I watched "Hey Paula" last night on Bravo. I know what you're up to. I know you have to take time out of your busy day of buying cheap sunglasses and throwing tantrums to train your new assistant Patty to cope with the "bullet train" of your life.

But goddamn it, I wrote you that letter in 1989. It's been 18 years. Eighteen years of defending Spellbound. All of it, from "Promise of A New Day" to "Will You Marry Me?"

I took jazz lessons for you. I wore a silver sequined headband and a neon splatter paint body suit and spun very, very slowly in front of at least 300 people for you. I thought, that after a few recitals and careful study of the dance steps in the Forever Your Girl video, we might perform together . . .

But no. You were out there mumbling, selling jewelry, getting your hair did while I sat in my room with my T-shirt tied in a side knot, waiting.

Oh, don't think I didn't try to forget you. I tried to move on. Bought a distortion pedal. Some Kik girl pants. Two tickets to see Xiu Xiu.

But part of me still hoped that one day, I'd walk down to my mailbox and find a letter from you, strewn among the bills and credit card applications and other repercussions of adulthood.

But to this day, I've received nothing.

I know you're not drunk, Paula. I know it's not the liquor that's making you act this way. It's the overwhelming guilt for having put me off for so long.

Well, it's time Paula. I'm ready. And in time, I'll forgive you.