I don’t know you. I’ve heard of you, of course, or I would not be writing this. But I don’t know you. I don’t know what you said or didn’t say, did or didn’t do. I’m even vague on what you look like; I would not be able to pick you out in a police lineup, though I’m sure I’ve seen you on TV once or twice.
What I do know is that the whole world seems to be taking unnatural delight in dumping on you. That has to be tough.
If you want to spend a few days not being a pop superstar, drop me a line. I’ll meet you at the airport holding a sign that says “Emily Bronte”. Nothing personal about the sign, but I don’t think I would recognize you. Then again, you wouldn’t recognize me either, so it’s even. I’m a pretty boring guy, but maybe boring might be fun for a few days. Simple times, when you can randomly yell “Shit!” and never have to explain why. As a special bonus, I can teach you a couple of dance moves.
Note to the rest of the world: do the woman a favor, and back off for a while. It’s hard enough to get your shit together it in private.
