An open letter to Rose McGowan

by Dorothy Snarker

Dear Rose McGowan,

Where has your body gone? Seriously, what happened to your arms? Who put those twigs there instead? Did a child get confused while building a snowman? Next to you, Rosario Dawson's arms look twice as thick. And Rosario is by no means a thick woman. Your soft, supple cheeks: sunken. Your milky, smooth skin: Well, let's just say I hope you drank a lot of milk, because your bones are popping right out of it. Heck, if it wasn't for your chin dimple, I might not have recognized you at all.

Remember when you looked vibrant, healthy and confidently sexy in that I'm-wearing-threads-but-pretending-they're-a-dress kind of way? Hell, I was even willing to overlook the whole Marilyn Manson thing. But this, this I am not willing to overlook. Someone needs to buy you a sandwich. No, better yet, someone needs to buy you an entire sandwich shop. And when you're done eating, say, six or seven meatball subs, you won't even need to look around for any toothpicks. Why? Because you can just use your arms!

In all seriousness, Rose, I'm worried. Why have you let yourself vanish into nothing but skin, bones and tousled hair? Haven't you heard that big is beautiful? Hello, ugly is beautiful. Look at America Ferrera. She's the hottest thing I've seen in years. Now that girl knows what you're supposed to do with a sandwich.

Sincerely,
Ms. Snarker

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