Dear Miley,

Thanks a lot. The VMA foam finger incident was bad enough, but then you have to go and smoke a joint on stage at the EMAs. How am I supposed to cope? What is our relationship even built upon?

I secretly like your songs. The rhythm and rebellion of “We Can’t Stop” that rushed through the radio and into my veins ignited my hunger for more Miley.

I was never a Hannah Montana fan, but that was the old you. I like your newfound voice, and even though I sometimes don’t agree with your lyrics, there’s no doubt I’m singing them in the shower. Even when I was in junior high and you were nearing the end of your Disney phase, sliding on poles at the Kid’s Choice Awards, I was singing “Party in the USA” in my head as I walked home.

And don’t tell anyone, but I turn the volume up to max when “Wrecking Ball” comes on in the car. I do wish I could sing this song without reminding everyone of your naked body swinging around on a wrecking ball. I really wish I could.

But no one can ever know this, because you dress like a hooker and smoke joints like Bob Marley (don’t worry, his letter his coming soon, too).  I like your hair, though. Your hair is awesome. I don’t get why everyone thinks it looks bad.

But I’m a hypocrite, Miley. I will never admit out loud that I actually like your music because your image has a bad reputation. I can’t ascribe to Cyrus without people thinking I’m a twerkaholic and a drug addict.

I hope you understand why we can never be together.  I just want you to know that you’ll always have a special place in my iPod.

Do not reply,

Secret Fan