Dear Michael Jackson

Do you know that when I was seven I used to pretend you were my boyfriend? You lived in my house with me, and you slept in my bed. That used to be a sweet little story of mine. Now it makes me feel icky.

I want you to know that I do feel partially responsible for the destruction of your mental stability. I’ve talked about you on this website before. I know that the world went batshit crazy over you and because of that you’ve lived a life that keeps you from understanding what it’s like to be a human being. I bet ten bucks you’ve never stood in a bullshit line, where at the end someone told you that you were standing in the wrong line. I’m pretty sure you’ve never been told that something was Sold Out, and you couldn’t get in. You’ve never intentionally stood next to Jim Carrey just to see if money would fall out of his pocket that you could use to buy some Ramen. I bet you could buy Jim Carrey to sit in your weird little pocket, the one made out of ferret pelt.

I do wonder, Michael Jackson, as I drive home late at night thinking about you and your current situation, how you got so many young kids into your bedroom. If I was a parent, and I’m not, but if I was, I cannot imagine a situation where I would let my young child — famous or no — stay over in your house and sleep in your bed. It has to be because of money. And this isn’t to take away from the fact that children love you. I know kids love you, Michael. Believe me, I was one of them. I owned a Michael Jackson headband. You and I have fake-kissed using the back of my hand for hours. Hours. I know children don’t look at you and understand just how loaded with cash you are. But their parents have to. And I’ve tried to figure this out, and the best I can assume is that either you’re paying the parents of these children to let their kids spend the night, or these parents are hoping you’ll do something to their kids so they can sue the shit out of you. Because what other parent in his or her right mind would allow their child to have a sleepover at the Neverland Ranch? The home of dirty Peter Pan? It’s no big secret that you’re a little weird. And kids are taught not to judge people. It’s up to their parents to not put them in that potentially harmful situation.

I’m not even talking about the fact that you might have molested these children. And I bet even one night of serious spooning is enough for these parents to want to sue you. But it’s traumatic for a child to have to sleep in a bed with a grown man. And I know you’re not mentally a grown man because you’ve yet to have one situation that teaches you how to be an adult. People have been hired to do the growing up for you, and you basically live in a famous box where anything you wish comes true. You are living the Disney dream, Michael. I don’t blame you for not understanding why you can’t have sleepovers still, as you’re about as smart as the average eleven-year old in terms of logic and reason. Also: kids are the only people on this planet who don’t think you’re a wacko. But you know what’s scary? Your face. In the dark. In bed. And even you’re smart enough to know that you could seriously freak out a kid who wakes up disoriented in the middle of the night.

So, Michael, I just wanted you to know that I’m bummed out about this entire criminal investigation/litigation/allegation situation. (You can use that for one of your new songs “Fuck Santa Barbara (Just Don’t Fuck the Kids).”) But I know what those kids are going through, as it was my dream when I was eight that I slept in a bed with you and we kissed and held each other all night as you sang me songs and told me how pretty I was. That was my dream. But there’s no way my parents would have ever let me do that. Like how now I want the same thing, but it’s with Johnny Depp? My boyfriend won’t let me do that. Because Johnny Depp would only end up disappointing me and making me cry. My boyfriend loves me, so he protects me. Just like how my parents protected me. They knew that I didn’t belong in your bed. Why didn’t the parents of the kids at your house know that? Why aren’t they getting arrested for child endangerment? Why are you the only one responsible? You’ve got like, a city, right? Where lots of people live and work? Why are you the only one to blame?

I bet you don’t even understand how money works.

Anyway, I’d hate to have to throw away my Thriller and Off the Wall records, so I really hope all of this turns out to be people trying to scam more cash off of you. I hope that not one child was harmed over these years. And I hope all of the parents have to make a public apology. I hope Corey Feldman comes to your defense. And the Culkins. Where are they? Why aren’t they saying anything? Why is it Alicia “Remember Me?” Keyes who rushes to your aid?

Why don’t you have any real friends, Michael? How come everybody loves you, but nobody understands you? What happened to you that made you so inhuman to everyone?

I’m sorry I dumped you for Kevin Bacon when I was ten. I really loved Footloose.

I hope when your kids get taken into protective custody, I hope they get to see what outside looks like for the first time in their lives. I hope they grow up healthy and happy. I hope you still have some money for their college funds.

I’m kinda glad we never went to imaginary third base.

Love,

pamie

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