Dearest Dov Charney,
Perhaps if you took a brief intermission from humping your naive employees, and backed your greasy-moustached ass up a few years, you'd realize that your beloved disco pants were done first, and unarguably better, by delightful, ever-rotating Latin youngsters, Menudo. Observe:
This janky, somewhat unpleasant beverage currently holds the top spot as
most embarrassing thing you can buy in theentire 7-11 (but to it's credit, hits me harder than any narcotic I have ever gotten my hands
on).
I was wide awake for two whole days this week, for no apparent
reason (save for my crippling workplace stress, and a lot of
pre-vacation anxiety), but a tie-dyed can of syrup with a filthy,
dread-locked dead guy on the label, a bunch of pills I bought from a stoned chick at the vitamin store, a couple of Benadryl, and the 11PM He-Man/She-Ra Power-Hour on
Teletoon Retro, and I slept for like twelve hours straight.
Sleep well, my kittens. Lack of sleep makes you foolish and mildly crazy, so I am discovering for the first time in years. Maybe the ocean air will clear my head.
Perhaps I need this vacation more than I know.
I have just spent the last three days spinning this track on repeat around the house, as I have been on stress leave from work (not my choice, long story). As a lifelong Madonna fan, I have no idea how I could've ever not known that this mix existed, because it is fabulous.
Wait, did I say 'lifelong Madonna fan'? I guess that statement is only half-true. I am a fan of the Madonna that existed between the years 1983 and 1996 (I even had a Madonna-themed radio show in high school with my sassy best friend!). Alas, something happened in the mid-nineties; someone slipped something into her macrobiotic juice or something, and now bitch is craaaaaazy.
The weird fake British accent, which she must've adopted to impress Guy Ritchie (and we all know how well that turned out). The strange rope-y physique. The fact that she's the same age as my mom, with a 16-year-old daughter, and is totally cool crawling up on stage in a leotard and asking a bunch of teenagers if they have taken MDMA, in the same way that my mom used to ask us if we had taken our daily vitamin. I used to get embarrassed if my parents wore corduroys to parent/teacher interviews, let alone if my mom was half naked and offering chemical solitude to my friends.
Self-confidence can be a funny thing. Without any, we can become sad, lonely mole-people. With too much, we can become Madonna. There comes a point when everyone must retire. The very last point that Madonna could've gracefully retired came and went about fifteen years ago. Nowadays, it's tough for me to discern any difference between Madonna and the wacky, artistic bag ladies that frequent my work. They both believe they still have fresh creative energy to share with the planet, all the while, people sadly shake their heads at the thought of them continuing to create.
Someone needs to drop Madonna off at a nice farm where she can run and do yoga in the fields all day, eat delicious organic grass, and stop making terrible albums. Amen.
