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August 15, 2001

New Letter from Mariah !

Hi fans, my little lambs,

      I guess you guys heard about how I had this very emotional breakdown and got rushed to the hospital for exhaustion. Or, as the media likes to say, "exhaustion" with quotation marks. As if I’m trying to cover up something, like a horrible addiction to Chupa Chups or high-grade cocaine!

      Not many people realize how tiring it is to be an international pop superstar. I can’t get five minutes of sleep without someone waking me up and giving me an award. I’m like, I just need ten more minutes, and my manager is like, no, you have to go accept the award for Best Female Pop Performer in the Universe of All Time. And I’m like, Jesus, then someone get me a Caramel Frappucino! And they usually do.

      It takes a lot of energy and exhaustedness to look as good as I do. JK! It doesn’t take much energy—you know, natural beauty—but I sometimes have to choose what clothes to wear. Even when other people do that for me, I have to get out of bed in order to put the clothes on.

      Also, I’m really sick of smiling.

      But I am so excited (and exhausted) about my first feature film "Glitter." It’s totally cute. I’m also shooting "Wisegirls" with Mira Sorvino, and I’m in David Lynch’s adaptation of Louis Menand’s "The Metaphysical Club" and an untitled Wim Wenders project. Plus I’ve been advising Congress on the ethics of stem cell research, fighting fires in Wyoming and working on my BattleBot. Whew! Thinking about all of these projects makes me soooo exhausted. The Nyquil isn’t helping either. :(

      Gotta go. Writing this letter has taken a toll on me, physically, emotionally, musically, and exhaustionally.



Matty D,

Well, what can I say? Words can’t express the pain I’m feeling right now. Wait, did I just say that? What I meant was that words can describe the pain I’m feeling right now. Specifically the words "intense longing," "passionate urges," "unfulfilled desire" and "for alcohol."

But listen, Matts, I know I dug my own grave. That’s what alcohol does to you. You don’t recognize your own life after a while. You forget which Oscars you’ve been nominated for, which stars you’ve slept with and which magazines have called you gay. Then, one morning, you wake up in a trashed hotel room in Singapore—head pounding, hands covered in cuts—and realize that you’ve just starred in "Pearl Harbor." That’s when it all hits home, and you know you need professional help.

Because I’m committed to getting better, I’ve signed up for the 12 Step Program elective that meets every Thursday. My favorite was Step 5—banging the nurse—but now I’m at step 9, which is apologizing to those I’ve hurt. So here’s a list of things I’m sorry for, Matty:

Back in Cambridge when you made me do those keg stands at your pre-prom barbecue, I kicked you in the ear while choking on warm Sam Adams. For that, I apologize.

I’m sorry that in Little League I used to call you "Fatty Matty." Who could have guessed all that baby fat would become an essential part of the boyish, camera-friendly looks that made you a star?

I’m sorry about that night on the set of "Good Will Hunting" when—totally smashed—I snuck into Robin Williams’s suite and broke your electric razor trying to shave off the good professor’s full coat of coarse back hair.

I’m sorry about that time on the set of "Chasing Amy" when... wait, you were in that one, weren’t you?

I’m sorry I’ve been hanging out so much with Paula Poundstone here instead of writing you letters.

I’m sorry that I wrote all your "Good Will Hunting" lines in that awful, awful accent.

I’m sorry about Winona Ryder.

I’m sorry about all the other times I’ve gotten into trouble, like the speeding ticket I got in Boston, the public lewdness citation in Spokane and that time I hurled my own feces at the state troopers. Forgive me.

Buds forever,

p.s. Please do not worry about me, do not change any plans on account of me and, especially, do not send me any more cases of Corona. Security is getting quite upset.

p.p.s. If I could punch your knuckles with mine right now, I would. I would form a rock-hard fist with my hand, give you a little nod, and hit your fist. And I would say "What’s up, Matty?" with my trademark smirk. And you would say "Nothin’, B," while running your other hand through your hair. But unfortunately, we can’t do that. Because I’m in rehab.

More 12-step humor:
The A.J. Letters: Quit Playin’ Games with My Liver

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