It's Over
2004-01-13, 9:55 a.m.

A Letter to Mr. Clay Aiken:

Understand that there was never a time for me where Clay Aiken was "in", but dude, you're sooooo "out"--why do you insist on offending me with your ubiquity? Do you want me to kill you? Stop. Teasing. Me.

I acknowledge that perhaps part of your over-exposure is not your fault--you're a hometown boy made good, and there isn't a hell of a lot to get excited for in Charlotte. But. It's anathema to me that you are the dreamy heart throb of early teen girls everywhere, when you are so clearly and definitively gay. Plus, you've got zero moves, kid.

I don't begrudge you your desire for fame, fortune, and underlying need for acceptance, but it's high time for you to disappear. On Broadway or something. It'll be a nice, safe place for you to come out of the closet. And learn some semblance of bodily smoothness.

But really, please, go away--before your name is like shitstain with me. No good can come of this. Not for me, certainly not for you, and most likely not for the millions of girls growing up destined to be Fag Hags, in love with their gay best friend, thanks to you.

It's over. So just stop. Thank you, please.