An open letter to Rihanna
Hey, boo. I hope you’re sitting down as you read this: I’m worried about you. That your personal life is starting to mimic Britney Spears’ circa 2007 truly concerns me. In your April 2011 Vogue feature, L.A. Reid, US X Factor judge and record executive, said that you became a star before you became an adult. Point taken. In my opinion, on some bizarre, reductive level, you could just be going through a quarterlife crisis. That said, not all 24-year-olds can claim to have sold 60 million singles and 20 million albums — unheard of even in this itunes age — or have over 40.5 million Facebook followers. You are special. You’re a snowflake. But the constant partying, the racist Twitter tantrums (Google “Rihanna rice cake”), the relentless overexposure? Let me reach for some popcorn as I watch you go off the rails. Look at you. Your somewhat nasal, world-weary although may not be the best in the biz, but let’s be real: you’re a knockout. You’re a living, breathing
Bratz doll whose incredible onslaught of guises has mesmerized the world (or at least the types who care more about surface than substance). When
we first met you, in the halcyon days of 2005’s Pon Da Replay, you may have been a little frumpy, a tad too “island girl.” Since then, however, your music videos have become signposts of your remarkable evolution. To illustrate: You channelled a pre-cougar J.Lo in
Don’t Stop The Music (2007) and saluted both Keith Haring and Neneh Cherry in Rude Boy (2009). You paid homage to grunge and Requiem For A Dream in We Found Love (2011) and tipped the proverbial hat to Janet Jackson’s
Together Again in Where Have You Been (2012). Let’s not forget that you even
managed to make Bozo the Clown red hair not just acceptable, but cool. Well played! Genius! So what the hell is up with the lace bandeau bra? Why sport a Cassie-style partially shaved head? It’s like you hate being hot.
I know, I know. Chris Brown totally
messed you up that night in 2009. “Greatest hits” punchlines aside, you really need to get your crap together. Your Rihanna Navy – lol – understood that you were exorcizing those demons when you went all dark and Adam Lambert in “Rated R”. ( Disturbia spawned many a Halloween costume that year.) But you’ve kinda lost whatever sympathy you gained from that episode by supposedly reteaming with
your loser of an ex. Boo freakin’ hoo, blah blah blah. No.
Following the recent New York bar brawl that erupted between Breezy and Drake, with both of whom you’ve shared a – cough – romantic past, the
New York Post called yours “The Face
That Launched A Thousand Bottles”. Keep up this nonsense, though, and it may soon become one that sets off a thousand eyerolls. We want the old Rihanna back, not the crazy bitch that took her place.
So here’s, like, an idea: Why don’t you take a break or something? You’ve released six albums in six years and you’ve been on several
world tours. Bravo! I’ve sent you an invisible thumbs up gif. Clearly you’re tired. No matter what your management commands you to do, you must get off that hamster wheel and get some sleep, not just an IV drip in your arm. See, it wouldn’t hurt to have the public miss you.
Besides, time away will give you perspective…I think.
Rita Ora? So you heard they were building her up to be the newer, younger,
happier British you? Ouch. But look at it this way: a little competition is healthy. You know how it is. Once upon a time,
you were the new Beyoncé, but a less manly version, thank God. It pains me to say this again, but it seems you’re
morphing into the new Britney. FYI,
some even dare call you and Chris the
Whitney and Bobby of our generation. We all know how that story ended. RIP, Nippy.
So yeah, you’re burning out. Help yourself to some carbs, or as you once sang, some “cake cake cake cake cake cake cake.” Go on an Eat, Pray, Love type of holiday. Stay away from clubs and bars. And from the Internet. And from ugly clothing. And please, whatever you do, don’t date a dude named Aubrey. The name is just…I can’t. Thank you for your time.
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