Admit it: you are one strong prescription away from being Anna Nicole Smith.

I decided to watch a little bit of “24 Hours of Love” on MTV2, an overnight block of live programming in which you and a few of your sycophant handlers are broadcast live from the MTV studios in New York. As MTV2 put it, you were given full, unabridged control. We get to see you saying the bullshit you want to say – WITHOUT EDITING – because that’s the kind of shoot-from-the-hip genius you are. Supposedly, you were also given permission to pick all the videos that are played during this period, though you spent a shocking amount of time complaining about MTV2’s inability to locate some of the videos you wanted to see. (what the fuck? i thought mtv was the coolest? what happened?)

Here’s my intractable take on you, Love. You cheated us. More importantly you cheated the chubby girls in lingerie who cried at your Hole concerts, because you instructed them in the okayness of being unpretty and aggressive. Here’s what you forgot to tell them: your plan all along was to use that aggression to secure yourself a place in the world where you could spend the rest of your life fixing that “unpretty” part and using your so-called aggression as a cover for juvenile tantrums, obnoxious opinions, party-crashing, and the kind of intoxicated public stupidity that should have been corrected during the adolescence you spent away from home.

Watching you sit on the street corner, right in the middle of Times Square, chatting with a group of teens whose approval you still so desperately crave even as you approach 40, sort of made me sick. Putting words in their mouths was worse. (“YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE? I HATE THOSE WHITE BANDS WHO STEAL BLACK RAGE!! HEY YOU – BLACK GIRL – WHICH WHITE BANDS DO YOU HATE??” classy.) And you proved your singular and troubled need for constant validation when, after leaving the kids, you completely obsessed over the one teenage girl who didn’t just share your opininon and spit it back at you. You came back to her, over and over again, like you were remiss in your duties to convert part of the flock and maybe – just maybe – she won’t see your powerful new subcultural HOLLYWOOD BLOCKBUSTER starring Kevin Bacon. Rage against the machine, Love! (were they on the soundtrack to that kevin bacon movie?)

See Courtney insist she had Moby’s ideas first. Watch her fall over a gigantic bed and show everyone her panties. Catch her name-drop Eve (“She’s a really, really good friend of mine!”), DMX, and Fred Durst in the space of ten seconds. Listen to her cynically announce to her pack of street-corner kids and the whole viewing audience that she has to cut her fireside chat short because it was time to break to a commercial “for, I don’t know, something to whiten your teeth or some shit” as she smiles through her own mouth of stunningly large and cosmetically whitened teeth.

Man, Courtney, you don’t even get it, do you? I sort of think the ultimate revenge will be your own impending teenager, who could possibly shit on you the way we were all designed to do. It’s not always mean; sometimes it’s just ritualistic. Our parents got over it, and understood (for the most part) it wasn’t about THEM, but how about you?

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