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Dear Fuck God,
First of all, let me thank you for all of my wonderful gifts. Thank you for my luscious weave, my bodacious fake tits, and my wonderful husband. Thank you for convincing my mother to give me the space that I need, mostly ‘cuz I feel she is a stupid and dumb, fat bitch anyway.
Next, I would like to say sorry for a couple of things. I am sorry that I voted for John McCain. I am sorry that I brought shame to the House of Chanel. I am sorry that I tried to bring shorts back into style.
Finally, I would like to ask for forgiveness. I would like to apologize for all of Spence’s and my staged photo-shoots, particularly the most recent one in which Spencer and I pretended to get martial arts training. Listen, I know they’re really annoying. I know we look ridiculous, but here’s the thing–I feel like we’ve basically signed our souls away to the Fuck Devil. Fuck God, at this point, unless I want to just bow out of life completely, I’ve got no choice but to keep up this douchery. So I’m sorry, so sorry, and wish that instead of pretending to fight in these last photos, Spence and I were actually, truly beating the shit out of each other, perhaps to the death, so that we could put each other out of our misery and make the world a happier, better place.
Anyway, gotta go. We’ve got a rezzie at the Ivy for “lunch.”
Filed under: Apologies, Chanel, Disappointing Your Parents, Douchebags, Fake Tits, Famous-For-Nothings, Heidi Montag, John McCain, Martial Arts, Prayer Hands, Shameless Photo Ops, Spencer Pratt, The Fuck God
I have to admit, poetry has always confused the hell out of me. Once I ventured outside of the AB AB rhyme scheme, I was pretty much effed. From a very young age, I kept diaries, I wrote stories, and I had imaginary pen pals (one of whom was named after the regional burger chain Whataburger), but I never fancied myself a poet. Even when I attended a graduate writing program, I avoided poetry. Poets, too, because they’re a whole different breed from fiction writers–infinitely cooler, yes, but irritatingly difficult to hold a conversation with. I attribute that to their constant need to distill everything down to its essence.
I’ve never been much of a reader of poetry, either. I usually get stuck on one image–T.S. Eliot’s rolled trousers, William Carlos Williams’ plum. I experienced that same confusion when I read the following poem, penned by Tila Tequila after she got dissed at the pink-and-blue disco-altar during the Shot at Love 2 finale:
Thunderfuck my mouth is shut. Been a while, feel like a cunt.
Can’t wait for this drama to pass.
Oh the joy…..fuck you. My ass.
Live a lie.
Tell my mind.
Over soon. I can’t deny.
You will all soon see, the truth in my eyes.
Smile on my face, the loving embrace….but instead I’ll punch you in the face.
For a long time coming….I let you touch me….now that it’s over bitch….You better start running.
Pent up inside….telling these lies….this has gone too far…..the world will soon die.
Only 1 more day. To feel this way. Tomorrow I smile….brings another day!
Back to myself. Nobody else. Fuck all this bullshit. I’m back to myself. Yes. Thank the fuck God.
Sure, she was going through unimaginable pain. Yes, she had been dumped AGAIN. And on TV, no less. But, reading her poem (the only entry tagged “Tila Tequila poetry” on her website), I was drawn to one thing, and one thing only.
WHO IS “THE FUCK GOD”???
I allowed myself to imagine that, if I could only figure out who “The Fuck God” was, the universe would fling open its sacred doors for me. All kinds of mysteries would be revealed. I would get rich! I would get famous! I would have mind-altering sex every day, possibly several times a day! I would finally understand phenomena that have confounded me for years, like the popularity of red shoes and Red Bull! The Grateful Dead and Coldplay! Dancing with the Stars and The Hills! Shorts-with-heels and short pants! Oprah and Rachael Ray! Why hot dogs are always so damned delicious!
This, I believed, was going to be bigger than The Secret.
After scouring the internet for answers, I think I found Him.
I don’t feel more enlightened.
Well, like I said, poetry confuses the hell out of me.