It's Not Stalking If I WORSHIP YOU.

My Dearest Petal of Sweet Beauty Oprah,

Hi! It’s me, Kiki. Remember? From that one time that I hid in your closet and tried on all your clothes and then you called the cops? Right. Sorry about that. But you really have some nice clothes and even though they didn’t exactly fit me, I was able to get them on and you have to admit, that yellow dress you wore to the 54th Annual Emmy Awards in 2002 looked pretty good on me. I think if you’re being honest, you’ll have to admit that the wine that got spilled on it when you tried to wrestle your Emmy away from me is pretty much your fault. I was just licking it, okay? What’s so wrong about that? If you would just let me smell your socks ONCE IN A DAMN WHILE I wouldn’t need to do that, now would I?

So, um, anyway. You haven’t been returning my calls. Or my letters. Or my email. Or my texts. Or my faxes. Or the singing strip-o-gram. Or the edible arrangement. Or the sky writing. Or the bill board. Or anything, frankly, I’m starting to think you JUST DON’T CARE. You never even wave to me when you see me in the bushes anymore. I went and bought a new trench coat because you said that it was one of the ten wardrobe essentials every woman should have. I wear all ten essentials all the time, but do you even LOOK AT ME ANYMORE? No. No, you don’t. Now I know how Steadman feels. Could it be that you feel you see me enough since I sent you that photo album where I Photo-shopped myself into every interview you’ve done for the last 22 years? Just so you know; superimposing my face over that of every single audience member and guest was a lot of work. But it was a work of love. Because I LOVE YOU and I want you to be able to relive those happy times with me. Even though you can’t see me, I AM ALWAYS THERE.

But, really, would it kill you to JUST ONCE acknowledge me? One damn compliment about how excellent the tattoo of your face on my back is would go a long way. How many songs have I recorded and sent to you? 12? 24? 367? Didn’t “If you were a cult leader, I’d drink your Kool-Aid” touch you at all? Did you not weep to “If God Were One of Us, He’d be you, Oprah”? I understand why you didn’t make my book “Ops & Me, Like Mash Potatoes and Gravy, A love Story about my special bond with the most fabulous woman ever, Oprah Winfrey, by Kiki” a book club selection, it would just make people jealous. There is simply no reason that you can not allow the life sized cardboard cut out of me to be displayed in your bathroom like I asked you to nicely each of the five times I’ve sent it to you though. Yet, still, you act as though that restraining order makes me invisible. I AM A REAL GIRL OPRAH, if you cut me, do I not bleed the Color Purple?

The real reason for my letter, this missive penned with my blood, sweat, tears, drool and toe jam on paper woven from my belly button lint and locks of hair is this; Ops, I’m thinking I may have to break up with you. The cost of fuel to follow you from Chicago, to California, to your farm, to Hawaii; it’s just getting too expensive. I know you’ll miss me, precious, but don’t cry! This is nothing like that time you had me held in jail overnight for rubbing myself all over with the Crisco from your kitchen! This parting will be temporary. Just until this wee little energy crisis is over! Although, if you would just give me a damn Vespa custom painted with your picture like I’ve asked you for in the haiku’s I composed about our friendship, it would be over a lot more quickly.

I must sign off now, My Oprah, my precious, my little chocolate lamb chop, the nurses say it’s time for my medication and I’ve worn my crayon down to a nubbins.

There, there, don’t cry my chicken fried southern snookums, absence only makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Until we are together again, just know;

YOU COMPLETE ME.

Smooches,

Your Kikikins