Relax, Y’all, Britney’s Gonna Be Just Fine
[Ed. note: In her latest report, Jessica Rowe, the winner of our Post-Grad Guest Blogger contest and a card-carrying member of Team Britney, gets to the bottom of Spears’ recent troubling behavior. Good news: Brit-Brit’s antics are totally sanctioned by her mental-health caregiver!]
It would seem that the world is once again concerned that Britney Spears’ life is spiraling out of control and into a pit filled with Ugg boots, Daisy Dukes and crushed Flaming Hot Cheetos. I must admit I am also worried.
I’ve been on Team Britney since 1998, when innocent, impressionable young Jessica first heard those three iconic notes that opened the musical masterpiece that is “(Hit me) Baby One More Time.” Not many people can honestly say that they’ve seen Crossroads, the movie staring Britney as a goody-goody high school grad striking out on her own with her two besties (one of which was Avatar’s Zoe Saldana, who I’m pretty sure keeps deleting the movie from her IMDB page out of shame). But I’ve seen it. Multiple times. (*Waves goodbye to street cred.*)
Britney and I have certainly had our ups and downs—she shaved her head, flashed her lady bits, married a baby daddy, broke the number one rule of gas-station bathroom usage—OK, it seems like it’s mostly downs here. But as of late, we’ve seen a return to production of mindless, irresistible, infectious pop tunes, and our relationship has stabilized once again. She sings “It’s Britney, bitch,” and I come running like the pop-music glutton I secretly am.
So imagine my concern when Brit shows up to the Grammys wearing what can only be described as a bodice covered by one of Nana Spears’ discarded funeral doilies, a few days after being spotted pants-less and missing fake nails 2-4 on her right hand. Like any concerned, in-the-closet Britney fan, I broke into her therapist’s office* to retrieve the following file from Britney’s most recent visit, which immediately set my mind at ease:
Case File 00327328
Patient Name: Spears, Britney
Occupation: Pop “Singer”/Never-Ending Train Wreck
Britney came in today, and after whining for ten minutes about how she can’t get her boys to eat grits and the fact that they insist on dry-humping everything that moves (a trait she claims they inherited from their father), we got down to business. She’s been dealing with a bit of depression—stemming from the fact that no one seems to care about her brand of crazy anymore, as all anyone can talk about is this “Lady GaGa wench, who like, totally stole my style, you know? I wasn’t wearing pants before it was cool. And what’s up with her singing LIVE and having ‘artistic vision’? Try gyrating with a giant boa around your neck, then I’ll be impressed.” After further discussion, we decided that it would be best for Britney to go back to doing what she does best—acting like a drugged-out hillbilly. She gets the attention she so desperately craves, and I get to spend more time scrapbooking. Win-win.
*I did not actually break into said office, but I did accidentally steal a bottle of water from a convenience store yesterday.