As I write this letter, my twelve year old daughter is sitting on the floor, cross-legged in mantra pose, invoking Gandhi and the Dalai Lama, refusing to eat or drink until you autograph a copy of your memoir, Justin Bieber: First Step 2 Forever. Such dedication can only be compared to the time I camped out for 'Nsync in front of Madison Square Garden. But that was then, when Lance Bass was still straight and I was young and stupid, spending all my babysitting money to get a glimpse of the boy band and touch Justin Timberlake's hair.
I know you will tell me that you are an artist, a soloist, who doesn't believe in autotune. You will tell me that you were conceived under Celine Dion's hits and born the same week "Power of Love" was released. Then you will say that you are a Christian boy like the purity brothers, Nick Jonas or Joe Jonas (whatever their names), a loving grandson to head-butting, elk-hunting, Zamboni-riding Canadians and you will call me your FAVOURITE girl.
Nonsense, I speak no Canglish. I refused to learn it while attending school in Niagara Falls although it was helpful in understanding John Candy's movies.
Why is it that you capitalize words in your tweets? Is it a new way of avoiding exclamation marks?
I know everything about you because of my daughter. Every tweet you send, I must read because of your daily updates. Must I remind you that we did not eat any dairy products in our lactose intolerant family until you came along and posted that pizza is your favorite food.
My daughter now refuses to eat anything else.
And you insist on my daughter buying your memoir? You are only sixteen and haven't reached puberty and yet I am reminded of simpler times. I am reminded of plastering 'Nysnc posters on my room wall with a hot
glue gun, sneaking out past curfew and my first kiss (and it wasn't with Lance Bass). I am reminded that you, Justin Bieber, make the polar ice caps melt and rock my daughter's world with rhyming lyrics. Despite your shortcomings, I recognize that you have improved my relationship with my daughter. At least, she talks to me about boys. I promise you-- just as I promised my ex-husband who divorced me three years ago-- that by autographing a copy of your memoir you will be saving me years of intense psychotherapy and a trip to Bellevue.
Wait! My daughter is walking over to see what I am writing and wants to send you a message-- "Pepperoni or cheese?"
God Bless America! I think the hunger strike is over. You have cured her passive aggression bordering on political activism although she now insists on moving to Canada. She mentions something about humane treatment of animals especially cows.
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