Oh, Britney

Oh, Britney. I don't know what to think. According to the "Captivate Network," otherwise known as the television screen in my office building's elevator, you currently have the 3 song in the country with "Gimme More." I find that rather interesting. Because while downward spirals the magnitude of yours may sell tabloids, I would be surprised if they sold a lot of records. And yet radio is playing the track practically nonstop (apparently...not that I own a radio), and I even saw the video on VH1 when I was getting ready for work the other morning, which is quite the coup considering VH1, as far as I can tell, only has about six videos in rotation at any given time. People genuinely seem to like it. It makes me happy to know that I am not the only one who still wants you to succeed.

The thing is, Britney, I'll always root for you. Once upon a time, you were my favorite celebrity ever in the history of the world. Even when I didn't like pop music, I liked you. I dressed up as you in the "...Baby One More Time" video for something like seven consecutive Halloweens. I bought every single one of your albums the day they came out, and I know the dance routines to an embarrassing number of your videos. Back in the day, there was nobody cooler. Like that one VMA performance when you ripped off that pinstriped suit to reveal a scandalous sequined nude bodysuit? Or the other one, with the live snake? You were so badass. Sure, you couldn't sing your way out of a paper bag (not that you tried, what with the lip-syncing and all), but you were an electrifying performer. Now, you're just phoning it in.

The thing is, we all make bad decisions. You, granted, have made a lot more of them than most people. Cheating on Justin Timberlake? Not your best move. K-Fed? Worse. Giving birth to two of K-Fed's children, then proceeding to neglect them in favor of drugs and partying as your marriage fell apart? I don't judge you for it. I feel bad for you. It wasn't a good choice, but sometimes life is too much for us to handle and we medicate ourselves in inappropriate, self-destructive ways. You seem, underneath it all, like a sweet, misguided girl. A little dumb, a little stubborn, but certainly not a bad person. They say that once you hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up, but that isn't really true at all. It's much easier to stay there than to set about fixing what got you there in the first place, particularly when that means having to repair so many burned bridges (you fired your own mother, for Christ's sake - who does that?). You've been an idiot. Admit it, and let people help you. They want to! Not to put too fine a point on it, but you couldn't look any more foolish than you already do, so any foolishness inherent in admitting you were wrong will actually make you seem less foolish. It's like multiplying negatives.

At the rate you're going, you're pretty much the new Courtney Love. Minus the legitimacy (because, while I acknowledge the outside possibility that Billy Corgan and/or Kurt Cobain may have actually written most of Live Through This, it is important to note that neither of them had anything to do with Celebrity Skin, which was almost as critically well received and, for my money, infinitely more aurally pleasing...plus, she was an excellent actress for about two minutes). You've actually surpassed Courtney in her own Courtney-ness, which is incredibly astonishing to me because you don't strike me as a certifiable, which she frankly does. I mean, she may or may not have orchestrated the most infamous murder-disguised-as-a-suicide of the 20th century! (Or he might have actually shot himself. Whichever.) You are making her look stable by comparison. And though she's managed to sustain the rock star/sociopath lifestyle for a few decades now, to the point that people are sort of inured to her, let's not forget that she is a rock star/sociopath. You, on the other hand, are a pop star/ex-Mouseketeer. It's like apples and oranges. You just can't hang. I'm sorry, but it's true.

So, here's what you need to do: first, unfire your mother. Everyone needs a mother. Then, unfire your publicist and your management (I assume you didn't fire your record label since you have a new album due out, but if you did and were planning on burning each individual copy yourself, I'd recommend unfiring them too). You no longer have any children to worry about, so you can immerse yourself fully in reviving your career. Call up that trainer of yours, the one who used to make you do like a thousand sit-ups a day, and get yourself back on the treadmill. Or don't - but stop wearing bra and panty sets on stage. Just because Beyonce can pull off curves in scraps of fabric doesn't mean you can. Beyonce is a robot. Metal doesn't jiggle. (More on that in a later entry.) Finally, most importantly, you need to ingratiate yourself with Justin Timberlake. I guarantee it will work - did you see the "What Goes Around" video, where Scarlett Johannson dies in a fiery car crash after he spurns her for being a trollop and doing his best friend? I firmly believe that that was his symbolic way of acknowledging his culpability in the fiery car crash that has become your life. He feels guilty. You can take that to the bank. And he's like Hansel, he's so hot right now. Get him to do a track or two for you and you will be back at the top faster than you can say "Chee-tos." Because let's face it: you're a puppet. You've only ever been as good as the people pulling your strings. Just because you've managed to get one single on the charts despite axing like 99% of your staff doesn't mean you can sustain it. It was a lucky shot. So smarten up before it's too late. Because really, who in the world didn't think it was already too late?