Tuesday, April 29, 2008

An Open Letter to Amanda Lorber

Dear Amanda,

Watching you on last night's episode of The Paper was excruciating. I can't believe those assholes didn't invite you to Dan's surprise party! I really liked your voice when you sat at home and sang Pink Floyd's "House of the Rising Sun" with your yet-to-be-named best friend who has obviously been sleeping with members of the marching band since grade 8. But mostly watching you was excruciating because ohmygod I totally was you in many, many small ways in high school.

First of all, the popular boys generally hated me. They hated me because I wouldn't let them put their hands between my legs when I was drunk at a kegger in a field, and I was opinionated, and I was smarter than them. Just like you. They were intimidated by my desire to be different. And it wasn't all good different. A lot of it was poseur different, just like you in your Urban Outfitters attire when you should only probably be allowed to wear Lilly Pulitzer. I liked books and boho chic and let's not even get into my premature obsession with the Dave Matthews Band. They also hated me because I hated them for hating me. Does that make sense? I'm sorry if I'm confusing you. But they wanted me to dumb myself down. To watch their soccer games. To not manipulate my friends into hating them, too. They developed superiority complexes because it was important they were superior to me, even though in a lot of ways they were. I still can't add for shit, let alone do division. I had close to no self-confidence but I acted like I did. And that's what they hated about me.

And isn't that exactly like you? You know that you are a good person, you know that you are doing the right thing and that you are smart and capable and will be successful, but little things like not getting invited to parties still hurt. And the newspaper room gossip! And that fucking slut Giana who hates you for no good reason except that you are confident and she has to use her body to get Trevor to like her. She is bitter about that, Amanda. All the girls are. Giana will be pregnant by the time she is 20 and she will be divorced from Trevor by the time she is 24. We don't want that, you and I. So we're subjected to the wrath of excessively cruel teenagers intent on knocking us down to their level.

Don't let them. That's my point. I was knocked down too many times to count in high school, but don't think for a second that those parties mean anything beyond the miniscule high school social structure. I know you got a nose job and I know you are trying to reconcile perfecting the paper with attempting to get people to like you, but my point is, you are a hero to all those girls who don't let dumb high school boys control them. You are smart and savvy and capable. Boys like Dan and Alex will end up in unhappy relationships and unsteady jobs because that's what they deserve.

But Amanda, you and I deserve so much more. Every night after screaming at the television because Lauren Conrad is the definition of a dimwit (but God love her for it), I stay tuned to MTV so I can root for you. Because I see myself in you. And I promise you that when you come to college everything will change. The boys will still want to fuck you, but they'll find your mind attractive, as opposed to something annoying and repulsive. They'll be more easily swayed by your penchant for prose and foolish British accents. Your tics will cease to be fodder for inside jokes in the cafeteria, and instead will become cute, loveable idiosyncrasies that attract instead of repel. You have my word on this.
So keep singing "House of the Rising Sun" and fuck those stupid assholes. You'll get yours one day. We both will.




Marshall said...

For some reason I'd never heard the Pink Floyd cover of House of the Rising Sun until now, so thanks for that.

Also your letter to your semi-doppelganger has forced me to write a letter to Nathan Lane, so thanks for that too.

Marshall said...

Also check out Bob Dylan's version, it's really spare and he still sings it from a woman's perspective which makes it oddly heartbreaking.