Dear Jenny

Jenny, instead of simply whining whyyyyy? to all who know me, I would like you to understand something: In the very small world that I populate with many a young wannabe, you're my hero/inspiration/idol/god/only woman to make me question my sexual orientation. I aspire to attain your style and apparent comfort in expression, and would volcanically sacrifice kittens to channel your voice. For Christ's sake, I even attended a party with the theme of "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up" dressed as you.




But I went to that party as the Jenny I know and love—the Jenny with the adorable freckles left over from Troop Beverly Hills; the Jenny in a politely-sexy red dress and flanked by the grown Shining twins; the Jenny so desired by the third party in this love triangle; the Jenny with a sweetly ferocious talent to make me smile while crying, and vice versa, and all the while, feel infinite.

But, oh, Jenny. What have you done?



Since when did the words “money” and “maker” repeated ad nauseum with a few poor rhymes a song make? And even if the room I occupied did start to get a little warm while watching you, why all the dark glitter and suggestive shadows and seductive pouts? Do you want your musical acclaim disintegrating into a vulgar moan or two while Pop Warner teams masturbate with the music muted, further twisting the image you’ve already begun to tweak into the realm of the pathetic?? You’re better than that, and a frighteningly better songwriter… at least, I thought so, and would still hope to believe that your gifts haven’t dwindled down to a portion that would leave foxes hungry.

My love for you persists, yet I’m not sure what to think of this new you: Is this a snide little joke of yours, a sly dig in Mtv’s ribs that only your pretty little red head gets? Or perhaps a cry for help as the indie- and pseudo-indie-kids drown in pre-packaged-Hilary-Duff-bubble-gum-porn? This being pondered, I honestly await the new Rilo album with a little fear, and a tad more anxiety, wanting to believe that maybe, as usual, I’m just being the cynical post-adolescent girl I’ve come to be while clinging to your footsteps.

Until that fateful day, know that I love you, Jenny. But, if the next time I see you, you’re living in a mansion house and wearing a rabbit fur coat, a break might be the best idea. I hope you sort yourself out, Jenny, for everyone’s sakes. Because until you do, I might have to pretend to be somebody else—or, God forbid, me. So save yourself, Jenny, and save us all.

Listening with love and fingers crossed,

Kait