Oh, you sweet celebration of sexuality and class. Even after all these years, you are still as beautiful as a blizzard, as majestic as an elk. I feel terrible about the way we left things after our ski trip to Chamonix. Again, I assure you that you did nothing wrong, I was just young and afraid of getting tied down (figuratively). I hope you've since found some semblance of happiness with Chris and those absurdly-named sex trophies you carry around. Hold your head up high, my diamond, there is no shame in compromise.
You have to let me go.
Now, onto the meat. I noticed that you have taken some heat lately from the press for your website, for your spontaneous music career, and for just generally being you. I imagine your self-confidence is a little shaken and that you would gladly wish it all away, if only you knew how wishing for things worked. Well, I'm writing to tell you that everything will be OK. I come to you not only as a friend, or even former mounter, but as someone who's right there by your side, at the top.
You and I are cut from the same cloth and I assure you, that cloth was very very expensive. The universe bestowed on us the gift to change the world through beauty alone, and we told the universe, "I can give more." Me through my many charities, my peace work in foreign countries and my renowned authorship -- you through that newsletter you do sometimes.
More specifically, lounging boots.
As if that weren't enough, you also aren't afraid to bury your helping hands in the wad of the lower class, giving them guidance for upgrading to a better life; your life. As sad is it may be, there are mothers out there right now who are unconsciously poisoning their children with macaroni and cheese for under $25. But not the mothers who get your newsletter -- you are saving lives. The point is, no one asked for your help, Gwyneth, yet you offer it all the same. You know who else does that? God. God and Batman.
And despite everything you've done, there are critics who still spin your humanitarian efforts as ostentatious. They accuse you of being out of touch with the average woman, and worse, of
In addition to the blows your website has taken from cynics, I understand that you are under fire for your career choices as well. I'm surprised to see that the country music fans of the world are unwilling to embrace you as a singer now. Don't they know that you pretended to be one in a movie? As sad as it makes me, I suppose this is the way the world works. The singularly-talented refuse to accept that there may be other people who are more talented at two or three things, or in your case, 47 things.
Hey, remember when we used to do it?
Unfortunately, I have no advice to give on that front, only commiseration. I went through the same thing when I put my journalistic career on hold in December of last year in order to throw my hat in the ring for the Nordic Combined event in the Vancouver Olympics. The media was ruthless in their attacks, suggesting that the other competitors had been training their entire lives. But no one had taken into consideration that this event had been a dream of mine for as long as I could remember, and at least since November when I learned of its existence. They severely underestimated my potential to succeed on passion alone, just as they are underestimating you and your musical career. I won that medal, Gwyn, and it didn't take a lot of "preparation" or "work." It never does for people like us.
Finally, the media cut you down following the assassination attempt on Arizona Representative Gabrielle Gifford. Of all their offenses, this was the most egregious. When Gabrielle was attacked, your rep immediately, and rightly, released a statement announcing that
You see, even when you're not on stage, the world still secretly watching you for answers. They want to know how to think and feel about life's hardest troubles. They turn to the best of humanity, all while pretending they don't care what you say. You, my dove, have the hardest job in the world.
Be brave my pensive, piglet. Be brave.
In conclusion, I want to be certain you understand that the naysayers attack you because, frankly, you are perfect, and that is terrifying to ugly, imperfect people. It's unfair, the discrimination you and I suffer on a daily basis, but you can't allow their cynicism to clip your long, golden wings. They will never understand that just because we haven't been forced to strive for anything in life, that doesn't mean we can't kind of guess at how that might feel. Keep at everything you do, my colt, the world needs you despite what they say. It needs to know your favorite hotel in Marrakesh. It's waiting for tips on hiring an assistant. It's dying to try your master cleanse. It does this while listening to you sing about loss. We are the few with the free time to sit and ponder solutions for the world's problems, it is we who are gifted with the physical height and superior eyesight to properly see the struggle of the masses below us. It's our genetically larger hearts that keep civilization afloat by forcing us to act on behalf of the greater good. You are the best and everyone knows it, but that's no reason to stop reminding them.
Your Teammate in Existence,
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.