Dear Kanye,
I can't help but feel like I'm getting a raw deal here.
Okay, you're a musician. I understand writing a whole album about getting your heart broken. Really, I do. And I've put up with it in the past because, as you know, I've always suspected "Gold Digger" is about me too.
But isn't this a bit much? You could have called me a "spoiled L.A. girl" seven times instead of eight. A bit dramatic, no? The worst thing I ever said about you was "Jay killed you on the remix."
Plus, I promise I didn't "take your soul," even if I was occasionally "hot and cold." If I was going to take anything from you, it would be a minute or two of your attention. Because, seriously, what's the point in even asking if those sunglasses look goofy on you if I say yes and you wear them anyway?
You know, I've done a lot of nice stuff for you in the past (telling you you should have won at every awards show, pretending to read your blog), but you give all the sweet songs to your dead mom. The best you can do for me is "when I grab your neck, I touch your soul"?
And now every guy I go out with is going to snicker whenever I mention a certain 1987 Peter Weller vehicle. Thanks a lot. How could you be so Dr. Evil?
Kanye, I don't mind the ocassional drunk dial from Ibiza, and I don't complain about you wearing gold llame. But no, I'm not going to let you "love me like you wanted to" if that involves you flexing in the mirror and yelling out, "I'm the new John Lennon, bitch!" at the point of climax.
As you instructed, I "told everyone that I know that you don't love me no more." So, you know, that's over. Can you stop being such a crybaby now?
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