Oops, she did it again in one day: TIGHTS

Britney, do you see your legs?

More to the point, how can you see anything but your gloriously twinkle coated pins!

Is this distraction why you, uh, augment your vocal...um, apply predestined musical sounds...oh, bother...lip sync? I don't blame you, girl. If I had a black sky of scintillating stars covering my lower half, I wouldn't be able to remember to breathe while I talk, fuggedabout "hit me baby one more time," you know?

Britney, I want, I need, I HAVE TO HAVE those tights. Can you possibly bear to part with them?

(Oh, can I have the shoes too? They look so good and obviously go with the tights and I like to get the whole outfit at once when possible. Saves time in the morning when you don't have to fuss with matching.)

I'm not that innocent,

I can see myself in your...

Dear Britney,

Indeed, you are "back."

Only someone who is a "back" as you are could wear a shiny metal bodice to such stunning effect.

But now that you've had a turn at being "back," I want to be "back" too, cuz I gotta have that bodice.

I picture myself moving metallically through life, feeding the dogs, making pancakes, pumping gas, CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, my liquid metal torso deflecting everything from mosquitos, ketchup and lint to...bullets! Divine! I'd be able to put in my contacts simply by looking down! Pretty and handy! You could run on the carpet and then touch me and, ZAP! Electrical shock! Such fun at parties!

Please, Brit, right after you get home from the tour, you bubblewrap that thing within an inch of madness and send it my way. Oh, get your dad's permission first.

I'm back, too, bitches! Zap!

Save the raincoat, save the world.

Dear Zachary Quinto,

You've been Tori Spelling's BGFF, an evil brain-eating Syler (on a show that had so much potential and seriously f'd it up big time) and are now a young Spock, on a Star Trek reboot that looks kick-ass.

Congratulations. I mean it, seriously. I'm a big fan. So look let's get to the point, I'm also a big fan of your coat. There I said it, you didn't have to scalp me and root around in my grey-matter to find out. Obviously you have it all: career, sexy eyebrows and the power of levitation, so what's this coat to you? Donate, please!

Live Long and Prosper!

Weeping Madonna (and child)

Dear Madonna,

I see you over there. I see what you're doing. Calm down.

You've flung yourself on the bed, bawling, and you're using that young man to wipe your nose. (Some of us use kleenex, by the way.)

When I said I wished you'd give me your slinky, pull-it-up-or-pull-it-down, zip-zip-zippy dress because it reminds me of a cool, similarly adjustable dress I coveted in the 80s, I was in no way implying that you are old or culturally irrelevant. I don't know where you get this stuff.

Are you not Sticky and Sweet? Do you not still rock a leotard? Have you not put Malawi on the map? Did you not make out with Britney? And Justin? And A-Rod? See? You're still THE QUEEN.

Now put the young man down, give me the dress, and I'll take you out for an ice cream cone. Okay, a human growth hormone shot. Or a Kabbalah water. As you wish, my lady.

Zip, zip, zip!

I am a danger to myself. The jacket is the answer.

Dear Mr. Calvin Klein,

Noticed your new jackets on the runway, and as I do have a tendency to fall unexpectedly and am often covered in bruises—I do appreciate padding a garment in order to to save one from one's self. Some believe this is self-harm, but I beg to differ—I am really just that clumsy. A "special" person such as myself needs just such a "special" person jacket (preferably in blue).

Now Spring is fast approaching and I'm sure you are having the staff ready the Hamptons Estate, so what good are these coats to you? The air temperature is rising, and this is way too much jacket for a balmy Long Island eve. I'm sure you have a few sample's lying around and you shouldn't hesitate to send one my way. I would boast to all of my friends how gracious you are, how youthful and macho—a rare man among men. Then I'd ask them to punch me in the arm as hard as they could just to see if I could feel it.

Bear hug to Lizzie Grubman for me

Posh Blot

Dear Posh,

Let's compare lives:

I eat pizza.
You saw pizza in a movie once. (Vulgar.)

You have a record number of Hermes Birkin bags.
I saw a Birkin bag in a movie once.

You have a lovely, drapey, ink blot of a dress with a flowy, oozey train that makes you look like a stylish Rorschach test.

I sometimes forget to cap my pen and get flowy ink blots on my clothes that make me look like a nerd after an SAT test.

See? We have ever so much to talk about.

Why don't you come over for lunch (don't worry, we'll just stare at some salads) and bring that dress? Pop it into one of those Birkins...I just want the dress, I promise I won't try to steal the bag. (Psych! I totally will try to steal the bag. I'm going to say, "Did you hear Prada is doing a line for Target?" and while you swoon I'm going to kick the bag under a table!)

And yes I know the dress isn't my size but I can stop eating anytime I want, don't be a bitch.

Air kiss!