Open Letter To Rihanna
I don’t care what anyone else says, I love you. I’ve loved you since you had long hair they crimped to make you look like a mermaid and were doing choreography straight from the “Exhausted Go-Go-Dancer Handbook for Up and Coming Pop Stars” on the cheap set of “Pon de Replay.”
Dear Rihanna –
I don’t care what anyone else says, I love you. I’ve loved you since you had long hair they crimped to make you look like a mermaid and were doing choreography straight from the “Exhausted Go-Go-Dancer Handbook for Up and Coming Pop Stars” on the cheap set of “Pon de Replay.” Is “Cheers (Drink to That)” one of my top 25 most played on iTunes? Yes. Did I watch all 90 minutes of your Rock in Rio concert on YouTube as recorded by some guy with a camera phone? Yep! Did the video for “What’s My Name” make me cry a little bit that one time it came on MTVJams late at night while I was coming down from ecstasy because I was awestruck by your beauty? Heck yeah. I think your music is catchy as hell (albeit somewhat lacking lyrically), and you deserve to be a huge pop star. You got that thang — that star power thang, and honestly, RiRi — you make me dutty wine in my pants and I want to be your best friend. I’ve been practicing my Barbadian accent and everything.
Maybe if I were your best friend I could convince you to stop collaborating with Chris Brown, in the studio and also inside your fringed hot pants. Don’t give me any of that “oh na na” bullcrap — we all know you’re doing it! And while I understand the attraction of a bad boy, Chris Brown almost put your HEAD through a WINDOW. He has also proven to be the whiniest, most ungrateful, immature doodie bubble in pop music in the years since (see his Twitter or any recent, highly publicized interview for reference). Yes, I saw the peen pics and I know of his legendary churro dong, but seriously — that thing is just one more way for him to abuse you. Purple mushroom, my ass — that thing will be a purple carne asada burrito across your forehead any day now, and we’ll have to start calling you Rihanna Hester Prynne.
CB has a new woman now, and that might be threatening to you in some way, but just remember — that long, pretty biracial hair of hers is all the better to be pulled out by him in bloody clumps one day, mmkay? At least you’re doing the wig thing now, so you’re probably safe.
But seriously, Rihanna. You’ll destroy your career if you get back with him, as well as this bad-girl badass image you’ve cultivated in the wake of that one time CHRIS BROWN almost put your HEAD through a WINDOW. Not to mention the fact that eventually, he’ll do it again. And do you really want to get the crap beaten out of you (again) by a sissy, whiny, conceited, overexposed prick who hasn’t even expressed true remorse for what he did to you? We don’t want the weak crimped hair mermaid version of you, we want the strong I’m-gonna-wear-an-S&M-outfit-to-brunch-and-smoke-blunts-in-public-during-vacation-cuz-IDGAF version of you, okay?!
So cut the crap, RiRi. Don’t let Chris Brown come to your birthday party, and don’t let him sing on your track about your birthday cake. Stop Tweeting at him and writing weird, vaguely metaphoric things about his girlfriend. Most importantly, stop humping on that purple burrito, cause we all know where that road leads.
Sincerely,
Someone Who Cares. 
