An Open Letter the Olsen twins.

Dear Ms. Olsen,

By Jess

I don’t know which of you I’m looking at right now, and frankly, I don’t care. You both need to hear this.

Stop dressing like a blind whore.

Honestly, babe, how much money is in your bank account? I hear there’s almost a billion in there. A billion. Do you know what a billion is, MaryAsh? Do you know how normal, poor graduate students such as myself view a billion dollars? We almost can’t, seeing as how we’ve been counting in debt dollars (which is actually negative numbers, MaryAsh. Just clarifying.) for about five years. But we do know that a billion dollars suddenly allows one to buy designer clothes. Clothes that fit. And hell, even when they don’t fit, an expensive tailor can make them fit!

MaryAsh, being a billionaire means you never have to buy jeans that are too long (because, hypothetically, you’re 5’2”), and roll them up. Being a billionaire means that there is never a pretty dress you have to walk away from. Never another pair of comfy, awesome shoes you have to forgo due to almost not having enough cash for rent. Being a billionaire means you can hire a stylist. You can have someone with a hair dryer in one hand and make-up in the other following you around 24/7. Being a billionaire means you can have 5 of those people. Just in case three of them get hit by a car while following you down the street and a forth gets electrocuted while trying to blow-dry your hair as soon as you step out of the shower.

MaryAsh, being a billionaire means you have the luxury of looking good all the time.

This is why you constantly frustrate me. Because instead of looking good, you continually wear things that make you look like some kind of Goth chick who forgot to put her black lipstick and eyeliner on. Instead of looking hot, MaryAsh, you insist on looking like maybe you slept on some trash the night before in an ally. Seriously. I see those people all the time on the streets of New York. You look like them. The only difference is you aren’t drooling and holding out a shaky hand for change.

Seriously, get a handle on yourself and start dressing like the winner you are. Stop looking so sad and sour and depressed all the time. You have a billion dollars. If life is really somehow still shitty with three houses and a Black American Express, go find the most expensive therapist you can and sit there until you’re happy! It’s starting to get on my nerves, MaryAsh. That sour expression you always have. If I see it in one more picture, I might have to march over there and smack if off your billionaire face.

I’m coming off harsh. I know. But it’s just tough love, MaryAsh. I’m only saying these things because I care, and judging by the pictures I keep seeing, no one else has been able to get to you.