Blog about you, that is. Dear Britney, please consider this an open letter of "OMG WTF DID YOU DO NOW?" And I mean that in the nicest possible way, with the utmost of concern.
I say that because I saw these photos (click here).
Firstly, why oh why didn't you stay in rehab? Isn't friends and family telling you that your life is screwed up, you're not spending time with your boys, your hair needs brushing, and please stop partying every night high as a drunken kite a sign that you really, really do need help? It's NOT a sign that you need to shave your head, no matter what I may have joked about last week in regard to your nasty ass extensions.
I would feel badly for you if I didn't feel more badly for your tiny sons. Are you letting K-Fed care for them? Did you stick them with a Nanny? Did you finally let your mom back in the house to help you with the boys? And possibly rename the younger one? Do you even KNOW who is watching your children when you're out comparing coochie shots with Lindsay Lohan?
You know, now that you're bald and shit, don't be surprised if Paris drops you. Don't get me wrong, she likes to be "the Pretty One" when she's out, but she does seem to have standards with how her companions look. Usually, the female ones have hair. Plus, she doesn't usually wear dirty looking sweats and jeans in public. She confers with her stylist first, I'm sure. Which reminds me, please call your stylist. It's time for an image update again.
Actually, first, I'd be ever so relieved if you called a psychiatrist. I get that you're depressed over marrying what you apparently thought was beneath your station, yet seems the worse you get mired in this balding, vodka-soaked mess, the more it appears you married ABOVE your station. I get that you're depressed over your second marriage crumbling. I even feel you on having two babies under 18 months old. I totally get that you feel like your childhood and your twenties have flown out the window. I have nothing but compassion for how your life has become such a cliche, and that someone is trying to sell what they claim to be your shorn rag-doll hair on E-bay.
After you book your psychiatrist, maybe you should put another call in to your accountant. I can't imagine that all the gin and vodka you've been swimming in hasn't put a dent in your wallet. Granted, you saved a bundle for a while there by not having to buy undergarments, but I heard that recently you had a shopping spree to restock your panty drawer. Of course, you'll be saving a shitload of money on shampoo, conditioner, gel, hair spray, extensions, string, or whatever else you were using to tie your hair in place. Still, the booze, honey, the booze. While you may be soaking in it, it's probably sucking your bank account dry.
Oh Britney, you poor thing. I don't mean to come across as unfeeling, uncaring, or as if I don't understand. I do. And I wish I could help. I wish I could sit you down on my couch and shove some brownies in your face and scrub you with some of my Avon shower gel and Mary Kay facial cleanser while you're distracted with the brownie, trying to figure out if it's "special" or not. Then I'd take you shopping for a new wardrobe, especially some cute little hats. We could even let the boys play with my girls.
Ah well. Now I suppose you'll just click the close tab on the screen and walk away, leaving me to wonder what you'll do to keep yourself in the camera lights next.
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