Dear Britney

Dear Britney,

Apparently you haven't been keeping up with your correspondence. I wrote to you months ago, but I'll assume, given you had "other things" to do, that you didn't get a chance to read it. Allow me to try again.

It's a shame someone like me has to write this letter, but you're in desperate need of an outside intervention.
Though your music was never really my cup of tea, there was no denying that you were an excellent performer with many talents. Vocal talent? Er, maybe not so much. But so what if you could be the poster girl for pitch correction software? Your trademark lip-syncing techniques, blush-inducing dance moves, and million dollar porcelain veneers, more than made up for the weaknesses in your voice. You might have been the most iconic and famous young girl in the world, and I was rooting for you.
I guess there is truth to the old adage, "nowhere to go but down".
With a huge, savvy public relations machine to shield and spin your various indiscretions, your early slip-ups were cited as "typical young Hollywood". Unfortunately, the speeches doled out by your "people" didn't hold much water as your wild behavior escalated. How you managed to get tangled up with Kevin Federline I'll never quite understand, but next thing I knew, you were buying small dogs together, racing to the alter, and popping out babies like they were going out of style. And still I gave you the benefit of the doubt.
And then came the Fed-Ex fiasco. At the beginning of your relationship, no one would have predicted that Kevin was the stable one, but it didn't take long after your separation for the truth to come out. Within a few weeks of being single, you embraced the partying lifestyle with more enthusiasm than Robert Downey, Jr. By rights, you should still be hungover. To list all your bad behavior would result in a bad case of carpal-tunnel, but let's recap a bit, shall we? Emerging "commando" from a car in full view of the world media, shaving your head, attacking photographers with everything from umbrellas to new Mercedes, binge drinking, half-hearted attempts at rehab in a number of different facilities, bare-footed excursions to gas station bathrooms all over Malibu, missing important court-ordered proceedings, that disastrous VMA "comeback" performance, the newly-acquired British accent, need I continue? On and on it went, until your everyday antics left Mary Hart and Billy Bush foaming at the mouth in anticipation of your next adventure. I just assumed someone would intervene eventually; this very public psychotic break was becoming difficult to watch, especially now that Child Services was breathing down your neck. Surely someone will step in and shake the stupid out of this girl, I thought.
I was wrong.
Britney, you lost custody of your kids. You lost custody of your kids for goodness sake! Let that marinade for a few minutes. Has it sunk in? At all? Your last episode resulted in an internationally televised police showdown, custody dispute, and hospitalization. In recent days, you've had numerous mental breakdowns, all captured by the watchful eye of the paparazzi. Don't you think this has gone far enough? Your antics point to either mind-numbing stupidity, or severe addiction and mental illness. I surmise the latter. For that reason, I suppose it's pointless to try to reason with you at this point.
However, someone has to do something. Dr. Phil was too busy flushing all his rapidly-diminishing credibility down the toilet to actually be of assistance to you. Your mother should have taken you by those nasty extensions and dragged your behind out of the spotlight and back to the Louisiana bayou, but she's too busy selling the story of your 16-year-old sister's recent pregnancy and waiting by the mailbox for her "Mother of the Year" award. The judge in your custody case could have issued an order for the paparazzi to stay away from you and your kids. And with all the assorted "boyfriends", "managers", "assistants", and "cousins", someone from your camp should have sought help for you long before you reached this tragic state. You might never be able to recapture your former glory, but at least with some help, you could overcome your addictions, balance your meds, and possibly be able to see your kids again someday.
You have reached a point where even the tabloids and those who thrive on your misery, aren't interested in making light of your situation anymore. To most of the public, unless you're dead or cured, it's just more of the same. Now is the time to get your act together and get some serious help. Suck it up and admit yourself into a reputable rehab center or psychiatric facility, a strict one. Who knows, a nice long stay in the country, free of photographers and chaos, might be just what the doctor ordered. Feel free to drop by anytime (for a modest fee, of course), as I doubt I'll hear any objections from those living in this house, without mentioning any names.
We're all pulling for you Britney,

Signed,
Gina & everyone I know