SOCelebrity

To Whom It May Concern: 

I am writing this today because it has come to my attention as of late that there has been a great deal of fallacies circulating about my life. I am here today to dispel many of these rumors and hopefully, for the first and last time, set the record on my personal life straight. 

It seems that many people think my life is easy, that I just coast though my days on a ray of sunshine. Well my friends, allow me to inform you that nothing could be further from the truth! If anything, at this point, I’ve all but lost the will to live. My slim figure was all I had to cling to in these hard times, but I’m slowly loosing my anorexic build to Doritos and processed cheese. The will to work out now just a distant memory as I have discovered investing in jeans a size or two larger requires a great deal less effort. 

I have a substantial two dollar and thirty nine cent a day caffeine dependency. I’ve tried to quit; I need to try again. However, the first waking hours of my day are a complete mess, absolutely unbearable, without it. I can’t find the will to dress myself or bathe properly when I’m jonesing for caffeine. There’s mornings I’ve found myself reading the side label of my conditioner in the shower, praying to god that Suave has included it as one of the active ingredients. Would I drink it? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. The health problems it causes really are of no consequence to me, the near lethal does of caffeine in a large sized Red Bull has all but sent me into coronary heart failure. My hands shake; my heart races and I have to pee like a mother but can’t focus on the task of urination long enough because I’m so wired up. One time while peeing, so preoccupied with finding something else to burn this energy on, I walked right out of the bathroom, pants around my ankles, urinating all over the place. It wouldn’t have been quite as embarrassing as it all sounds had I the foresight to check my feet before leaving the men’s room and noted the piece of toilet paper stuck to my left shoe. 

My car is a death trap. Let go of the steering wheel for one second to spark up a doob before class and it veers further to the left than my last boyfriend’s penis. It’s a battle to keep the thing on the road, a real battle. The parking brake is completely worn down to a mere suggestion of its former self. I tried remembering to unlatch it before driving, but they really should implement some sort of warning system other then the odor of burning break pads. I have to park on a completely flat surface now, which is next to impossible to find. I don’t know who paves parking lots but I’ve gathered their budget doesn’t include a level. So I’m forced to park wherever I can and pray my car stays where I left it. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve come out from class only to find my car has rolled backwards through the parking lot and out into traffic. You never get used to that sort of embarrassment. The onlookers saying things like “what sort of idiot does something like that!” I deny I ever owned the car and join in, promising whenever we find this reprobate, who has clearly no regard for public safety in mind, to give him a real piece of my mind. I then proceed to walk the thirty five miles home, “I’ll pick it up from impound later this evening” I think. 

I struggle to keep even a single friend. For god’s sake, I’m like a hemophiliac with these people, hemorrhaging them left and right! It’s to the point where I don’t even know why I keep a cell phone; periodically I test the ringer to see if it still works because I haven’t heard it ring in months. My buddy list is down to four people, three of the four screen names are mine. I begin to wonder if it’s me, perhaps I’m a bit to abrasive, opinionated, perhaps I really am a self absorbed asshole like everyone says. “Poppycock” I say, “It can’t be me.” And if it is me, I remain unapologetic for my behavior, I should not have to change the way I am and have been for the last twenty-three years to fit the mold some may have set in their mind. “I’ve been the same person my whole life” I think to myself, “If they had a problem with it at the start they shouldn’t have continued the friendship.” 

So at home alone I sit, reorganizing my collection of Mardi gras beads by color. I’ve never been to a Mardi gras party; I just bought the beads and imagined what the party may have been like. I was wearing a fierce outfit, the life of the party always in the center of a crowd, people hanging on my every word. 

“…so we seriously argued for almost an hour, he kept insisting that the penis DOES have bones in it! ‘How else do you get an erection’ he says to me.” The crowd erupts in riotous laughter as someone brings me a fresh cocktail. Cher is there, sitting in the corner royally pissed off, it’s her party I’m at, the one she was planning to announce the re-re-re-re-re-re-launch of her musical career, not that anyone would have really cared anyways. “You can only cry retirement so many times” I think to myself, “Only so many times before people lose interest.” By the end of the evening she’s been cast further into the shadows by my announcement of a world tour. I’ve not yet released an album, but still have managed to sell out every stadium from Denver to Iraq. And yes, my tour does stop in Iraq. It takes place in a newly constructed arena named in my honor, after I constructed a plan for ending the conflict in Iraq, turning it from essentially a ticking time bomb to a hub of fashion and musical talent; a France/Hollywood fusion of the Middle East, if you will. Drew Barrymore has just purchased a loft down on Shiite Avenue, right across from gay bar actually, Baghdad Buns, or BB as the locals call it. 

In all actuality, I read a lot to pass the time. I’ve just finished an almost four hundred page book on the secret war of control going on inside the White House. I can honestly say I now know more about the war in Iraq than, I assume, the president. I’ve even managed to go cover to cover on a book written by Al Gore. Most of it was regurgitated rhetoric originally by George Orwell. I’d say it was a good read, but I cannot lie, and must protest that you will not fully understand human suffering until you thumb through one of Gore’s books. 

This morning, because I felt the need to mentally punish myself, I watched a good hour or so of golf. I can’t imagine how anyone could find such a ‘sport’ entertaining, half the time was spent looking for balls that had flown off course into brush. Then the agonizing debacle of deciphering which ball belonged to which player. Apparently, despite making it to the PGA, none of these idiots had the foresight to bring a sharpie with them. 

In closing, I hope this letter has helped to change the brush strokes of the picture you had painted of me in your mind. Change them from a Monet to a Picasso. It’s not always so sunny in the life of Michael Hansen. You don’t know my life. Bitch. 

With all my love, 

Michael