I can call you that right? Great. Well Kimmy, I’m going to get straight to the point of this here letter, seeing as I have other obligations to fulfill and you have butt exercises to complete, makeup to apply, and NFL football players to chase. It can be a tough world out here for us moderately attractive women on the search for the perfect foundation, right? Right. Ok, back to the point. Kimmy, I think you are a perfect example of the girl next door (Ok, maybe not.), no one wears a blazer and liquid leggings better than you can, and your knack for always knowing the perfect thing to say at the most appropriate of moments (telling your engaged sister that YOU were supposed to be the first to marry, was totally amaze), makes it extremely hard for me to tell you this: I am tired of your over exposed ass.
What some may consider to be your strong points; the long luxurious hair, perfectly manicured nails, your well endowed hind parts, that keen sense of “style”, and celebrity friends, make me nauseous. It’s very hard for me to stomach your nonsense anymore. This has nothing to do with your sex tape, your ability to ONLY snag available African American bachelors that happen to have loads of money, or the fact that like a baby vulture you seem to circle and then bounce on the nearest standing celebrity that could potentially intensify your “star power”. No Kimmy, those have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I involuntarily cringe every time I see your face on my TV screen or in one of my magazines. Ok, maybe a little.
The fact of the matter is this: Kim, I have no idea what it is you do. You know, for a living. I see you in magazines, I see you on red carpets, I see you and your emotionally crippled family on television from time to time, but all these things still leave me wondering. I mean, I guess we could qualify you as a socialite, but that would be like totally beneath you. I mean seriously, what socialite endorses products by tweeting and makes $10,000…FOR EVERY TWEET. Totally beneath you. Could you be classified as a model? You’re so pretty one could only assume right? Well, I’m sorry Kimmy, but according to your measurements and all that talk about “loving your curves” I’m certain you aren’t the go to girl for Parisan runways (although I’m pretty sure that’s a dream of yours).
Kimmy, I tried. I’ve been racking my brain for sometime trying to figure out how to label you. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be labeling anyone, especially when labels are just like so cliche nowadays. But here’s the thing, when I open my latest issue of Vanity Fair, Harper’s Baazar, or (gasp!) Vogue, and see you standing there during some party beaming at me with what I consider to be your bedroom eyes, the concept of Kim Kardashian begins to get very old…very quickly. Don’t get me wrong, your perfectly coifed clevage, and signature smokey eye makeup look immaculate inside the folds of People, Ok!, InTouch, and I’ll even throw you a bone and say Cosmo, but when you are in the pages of what some circles deem to be the Holy Trinity of magazines, that begins to look weird. I actually start confusing you with someone that has a job title…and we all know that just ain’t right.
I’ve said my peace. I hope this doesn’t hurt or offend your feelings Kimmy, I really do. I just feel like maybe it’s time to put a label on your ish so I can stop calling you “That Girl that had Sex and Became Famous”. I mean seriously girl, there isn’t always going to be a Kelly Rowland or a Reggie Bush to rely on, and there’s only so many times I can watch a YouTube video of you applying that damn smokey eye trying to teach impressionable young women everywhere how to find their inner Kim K. A girl has got to get serious sometime, right?
Brilliant idea! How about you absorb some talent from your BFF of the moment Ciara (probably until Beyonce starts answering your phone calls, right?) and name your debut album “I Got Famous and I Don’t Know How”. It’s sure to be a best seller!
With Love and Boob Cleavage,
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