Dear Lady Gaga,

I think you're pretty cool. Okay? I really do. I admit that when I saw your first music video, I sort of wanted to take something very pointy to your skull, because like we need another slutty blond girl singing about how easy it is to get into her sparkly spandex American Apparel hot pants when she's drunk. But once you busted out the nipple fireworks and killed Alexander Skarsgard, I went over to the dark side. Because, let's face it, no one can pull off Muppet genocide like you do.

But when you make me go through 20 minutes of scantily clad backup dancers with bowl cuts violating each other and cigarette sunglasses and chunks of meat wrapped in barbed wire and no eyebrows and American Flag jumpsuits and rosary-eating nuns in red rubber habits and going back to normal for five seconds only to bust out a machine gun bra in the next shot and lesbian prisons and your entire face randomly dissolving and scaring the shit out of me all for no ostensible reason (considering that none of that has anything AT ALL to do with what you are talking about), only for me to excuse everything once you start singing and get Allejandro stuck in my head? NOT COOL, GAGA. REALLY NOT COOL AT ALL.



P.S. Do me.