I'm sorry, I have to say goodbye... you'll find someone else

Sheena Easton, you are dead to me. I don’t care if you are scheduled to perform at the Lewis Family Playhouse in Rancho Cucamonga in November, I don’t feel any desire to be in attendance.

Okay, okay… you are rather attractive, I must admit, in a ‘90’s sort of way, with your sensual, suggestive album covers and your appearances on PAX networks’ Young Blades, which I must confess, I have not seen. However, I simply cannot sit still for an album named Todo Me Recuerda A Ti, even though I can’t recall ever hearing you sing.

Recuerda this, Sheena, if indeed that’s really your name, it’s nearly incomprehensible for me to envision a mother looking down at her precious newborn daughter and saying, “Welcome to planet Earth… Sheena”... she probably named you Brandi or Wilhelmina and you couldn't stand the stigma attached. Oh, you didn’t think anyone would question that, did you? You think we were all born last night, don’t you? Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to make me believe that Ian Donald Calvin Euclid Zappa’s real name is Dweezil.

So, go on with your pathetic little singing career and minor-star status among those pallid, simpering unfortunates gullible enough to pony up enough shekels in the audio department of the West Des Moines Wal-Mart to purchase your latest rendition of some hit that a real star made popular twenty or thirty years back.

Just know that some of us out here are keeping our eye on you, girl— any shenanigans and there’ll be h-e-double-hockey-sticks to pay. Someday you'll understand that it's not polite to ignore a well-wisher who cares enough about you to rent an apartment in your building... and restraining order or no restraining order, I've got your back, baby, don't you worry. If you'd just take the time to read one of the notes I slip under your door instead of giving them to the detectives, you'd understand that I just want to have dinner with you-- no expectations, of course, that goes without saying. I mean, I'm not some creep, you know? I just want to watch you eat your Cobb salad and check out whether or not you're truly left-handed. But, if it's really too much to ask, well, what can I say? If I miss this bus, another one will come by soon... or so my mother keeps reminding me seven or eight times a day. 

I truly think you're swell... most of the time.

3-G