An Open Letter to Katie Holmes (in hopes that one day she’ll see the light)

Dear Katie,

Remember when you used to smile? I mean, really smile. Not that Tom-Gets-Mad-If-I-Don’t-Grin smile. Remember when you dressed your age and actually spoke?

Where did those days go? Has Tom done something to your brain? He hasn’t lobotomized you, has he? I wouldn’t put it past that guy to have a complete lobotomizing room in his basement. Has he given you shock therapy? I know he wanted to buy his own ultrasound machine at one point, maybe he just had them throw the shocks in for free?

I was looking as some pictures of you recently, and I’ve noticed that all the joy has seeped away from your face. I’ve also noticed that you’ve started to dress like my mom—if my mom was super rich. This unsettles me because I’m pretty sure we’re the same age.

You know, I was never your biggest fan (your cutesy act never really worked for me on Dawson’s Creek, and after that I couldn’t ever picture you as any other character), but I feel like it’s my duty as a female, as a woman who knows what it’s like to have dreams, to urge you to break free of the crazy bastard you married and run far, far away.

I bet he tells you you’re career will be ruined if you ever leave him. At night, while he sits by the fire thumbing through old Scientology textbooks and you’re waiting out those required ‘being a wife to Tom Cruise’ hours, I bet he tells you that leaving him would be useless. Much like a cartoon villain, he tries to suppress your desire to live. He may even sing a song about these evil mind games, a la Disney.

But I’m writing this to tell you that it’s not true! What you don’t know is that the country is rooting for you. Women everywhere are secretly horrified at what’s happened. We can’t imagine what it must be like to be linked for all eternity to a man who’s obviously gay and crazy, but so rich he can almost single-handedly keep a weird cult in mainstream religious society. It must be frightening, Katie.

Escaping can happen. Mexico. Australia. There are places. Honestly. I know a guy in the Mafia who can help you out. Call me. You don’t mind Staten Island, right?

Be strong, Katie. And always remember that a true husband never requires separate beds—or that you wear a basketball under your shirt to convince the world of the power of his sperm.