Justin, listen. Listen, sugar. You know I love you. You know that I care about your well-being more than my own. You know that I would do anything at all in my power to make you happy, and if there was something that wasn’t in my power to do, I would research the necessary magic spells, Satanic rituals, and blackmailing techniques that would give me that power. I would do anything for you, Justin, and you know that because of all those letters as I sent you and also that one VHS tape with hopefully unnoticeable stains that was returned to me (the postal service, LOL, so annoying!). But listen. We need to have a talk.
I looked the other way when you started dating Selena Gomez, because I know it’s just some PR move and that you don’t really love her and that you didn’t really hold hands at the IHOP, and despite what my letters sent in the December of 2010 and the January of 2011 say, I know that you weren’t and aren’t trying to hurt me. I looked the other way when you did that song with Chris Brown, because I want you to do well in your career, no matter how gross Chris Brown is. I even looked the other way when I saw that video of you that displayed your inability to name all seven continents, because I thought it was kind of cute and that it was something we could do together, learn first grade geography. But this? This is too far.
When you got your first tattoo with your dad, the one on your ribs of the Hebrew word for “Jesus,” I was furious. You remember. I thought it was awful that you were tainting your pure tender flesh with permanent ink, no matter what the message was. I thought that you had forever defiled yourself, and that was very upsetting to me. And you knew that, Justin, you knew that. I mentioned it in many letters, my disappointment. It wasn’t a secret.
Over time, I grew to accept the tattoo. I’m not saying it wasn’t hard, because it was. It was way hard. But when you love someone, when you truly love someone with all your heart and soul, you accept them completely, no matter what. “So he wanted to get a Jesus tattoo,” I said. “Is that the end of the world?”
But this, Justin. This is the end of the motherf*cking world. Are you kidding me with this? Have you lost your goddamn mind? A tattoo of Jesus’ face on your precious leg? A sizable tattoo covering up your tiny angel calf? What is the meaning of this, Justin? Tell me why you did it, just tell me why. And then remove it. You get it removed THIS INSTANT, DO YOU HEAR ME?!
Ok, sweetie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I lost my temper for a minute, but you know I love you. You know I just want the best for you. Here, I’ll run and make you another collage to prove it. And, in turn, put on some pants so I don’t have to see your ruined flesh.