It’s been a long time since I got to bring you a Letter of Truth, so long that I realized maybe some of y’all don’t even know that The Letter of Truth is a real thing I did and not some crazy shit some weird lady-bloggers made up in a Cheeto-fried fever dream they had while they were off getting their roots dyed or whatever it is old people do. I used to write Letters of Truth ALL THE TIME because I used to have so much stuff to talk about, like K Fed (whatever happened to that guy) and Justin (I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT) and whatever my sister was doing with that pipe-layer she married that one time. And remember how I used to go out with Paris all the time, that one summer that everyone in Hollywood was driving down the freeway the wrong way and car-jacking people and flashing their cooters and shaving their heads? That was one crazy summer, y’all, like I’m pretty sure some smart person is going to write an oral history of it and I just hope I get to tell my story about how I found out Paris was going to jail while I was standing in a Denim Doctors getting my True Religions hemmed because it was totally the best day of my life. ANYWAY. Now I only really leave the house for special occasions and also when I am contractually required to do so by law and also last night, when I was celebrated for my amazing athletic achievements at the ESPYS:
Y’all, I can’t even DANCE anymore so I have no idea what kind of sports thing I did to make this possible, but judging from what my mother made me wear before she shoved me into the limo and told me to go remind everyone that I’m still a thing — WHATEVER THAT MEANS — it’s possible I was a real good figure skater and I just forgot? I don’t know. That seems like something I might have had to learn for Crossroads, right? Anyway, just look at the back, y’all:
These are the best extensions I’ve had in like ten years and I’m appropriately sparkly and also MY SIDEBOOB IS BACK, which reminds me I think I should start a lifestyle brand like Reese Witherspoon and that other one and call it SPEARS and then I can just EMAIL you about sideboob and maybe sell bedazzled tank tops? Anyway, think about it because seriously I am tired of working in Vegas because it’s SO LOUD THERE.
PS: I’m single now and I decided this afternoon while I was reading InTouch that I ought to date Chris Evans JUST THINK ABOUT IT CHRIS.