We get it: You have a vagina. But guess what? So do I.
You see, you and I aren’t all that different. Besides the whole vagina thing, we’re about the same age, we’ve both been told we’re too fat, and then too thin, and we’ve both endured existential hair crises. News flash: changing your hair does not change who you are. Learned that one the hard way, Miles.
However, there’s one very big difference between you and I. Unlike yourself, I respect my femininity and all that’s paved the way before it. But as a fellow PMSer, I feel like I owe you the honest truth: When I was 20, although there weren’t any wrecking balls, I didn’t respect what it really meant to be a woman, either.
It didn’t matter that my single mother slaved away to send me to an all-girl prep school, where I learned to value my intelligence over everything else — I still thought my body could buy me love. And I was painfully wrong.
And Miley, I’m not just talking about sex here. Yes, it did take me three years to understand that just because Blake loved my boobs, he didn’t love me, but that’s not the point. The point is, I thought if I ate only celery stalks for three weeks straight, I could hold on to my job as a dancer at Louisville Ballet for one more year. I thought if I could somehow transform my “cute” persona, subtly making my movements more sensual, the artistic director would fall in love with me as a performer. I thought if I was a little more photogenic, every girl would want to be me. And I thought if every girl would want to be me, then I would want to be me, too.
And soon I realized, I wasn’t really thinking at all.
Your body doesn’t buy you love, Miley, it buys you a very temporary spotlight. Exploiting your newly fit figure doesn’t make you a revolutionary artist or a better person, but rather, a sad, lost girl, craving attention. Your “strategic hot mess” doesn’t make you Madonna or even Britney, although it did get you the cover of Rolling Stone and the hosting gig on "Saturday Night Live." As Sinead O'Connor tried to tell you, it's just plain stupid, "behaving like a prostitute and calling it feminism."
You’re teaching every girl our age — and worse, younger — that if you all of a sudden become “allergic” to gluten, lose 15 pounds and discover your sexuality in public, you deserve to be valued and celebrated.
Our mothers didn’t burn their bras and bang their heads on glass ceilings just so we could prance around on stage like mindless sex objects. They worked their asses off so that their daughters could have both the freedom to own their cleavage and kill it in a conference room. I mean honestly — thanks, Mom.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for you discovering your sexuality, but please do it in the privacy of your own home, so girls going through the same things won’t think straddling a foam finger on stage is hot, and our parents won’t think our generation is absolutely hopeless.
Be sexy, be smart, and maybe eat a goddamn cheeseburger once in a while.