July 19th, 1998
Justin,
So… you and your dancing friends were on TV last night. My stupid sister made me watch the entire thing. Honestly, I would have much rather spent that hour watching paint dry… or trying to dig my eyes out with a spoon.
Seriously… who the hell dressed you people? I didn’t realize the theme of your group was space travel. And your friend with the purple pants? Were you all trying to gain fans, or offend people? Based on your outfits, I’m guessing the latter.
The whole town was all up in arms this morning, I hope you know. Everyone seemed fairly impressed with your “accomplishment.” Oh… and every girl you’ve ever known suddenly wants to have your children. Me being the exception, of course. I think even Trace has a crush on you after that.
I just have one question. What in holy hell possessed you to attack your hair with a highlighter? Also… have you even hit puberty yet? It doesn’t sound like it. Or, is this you after puberty? Good god, I hope not… if so… it really sucks to be you, doesn’t?
Yes… I’m aware that that was more than one question. But we’re not talking about me here.
Anyway… as much as I hate to fuel your already enlarged ego… everybody is going apeshit over you.
If I actually liked you, I’d probably feel bad for you the next time you have to come home. I’m pretty sure everybody’s going to attack you. Sadly, they won’t be attempting to hurt you.
Now… I have to go do something much more important than write to you….like watch grass grow or something.
-Norah.
P.S- My idiot sister would like an autographed photo. If you’re able to do that, please put it in a separate envelope. I don’t want to be blinded by your hair.
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July 30th, 1998
Dear Norah,
I’m glad you think you’re so damn funny. I hope you know… I’m getting fan mail every day now, and popular opinion seems to be that I’m awesome, and I quote “super sexy.”
That’s right… I, Justin Randall Timberlake, am officially a sex symbol. You’ll realize this one day. Unfortunately, you’ll probably still look like a boy, and I’ll have to turn you down. I promise, I’ll let you down easy though. I have a reputation to maintain, after all.
And I’ll have you know… I dressed myself for that concert. And I looked damn good, if I do say so myself. However, I’m pretty sure Joey’s pants were made from some old ladies couch.
Anyway… the concert seems to have done some really cool shit for us. We’re ten times busier than we were before, which has to be a good sign, right? I mean… we’re all really tired, but this is exactly what we’ve been working for, so I’m not complaining.
Well… sorry this is so short, but I’ve got a lot of stuff to do. Believe it or not, I put everything on hold to sit down and write this. Feel special.
-J
P.S- Me and the guys all signed a picture for your “sister.” I know it’s for you… you didn’t have to lie, ya know. But, since I’m a nice guy, I did include one for her , too.
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September 5th, 1998
Justin,
I went back to school last week, and I saw several things that were quite disturbing.
First… there are girls wearing t-shirts with your face on them. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is at eight in the morning?
They also insist on playing your music constantly. In the halls between classes, during lunch, in the parking lot after school. It never ends. I’m sure you probably get tired of singing the same songs over and over, and let me tell you… I feel your pain. Because I am completely sick of hearing them.
Then… if it wasn’t bad enough that I had to hear you all day, I come home and you’re on TV. My sister obsessively tapes every single thing you do. I honestly don’t understand it. Why does she need to watch you dance and sing, when I’m pretty sure my parents still have videos of you falling off the swing set in our backyard. That would be much more entertaining to watch over and over again.
You know… now that you’re famous, I could probably sell those videos and make a shitload of money. I’m sure there’s some incriminating photos around here somewhere too. I think I’ll pitch this plan to your mother. She’s a smart lady, she’ll see the potential. Plus, I’m sure she has way more things we can use against you.
So… to summarize… the entire school is obsessed with you. And it’s disgusting.
-Norah
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December 15th, 1998
Dear Norah,
Well… today I found out that we don’t get to come home for Christmas. So, I’m sending this with your present. Yes… I’m sending you a present, but don’t get too excited… it’s not a lock of my hair or anything.
We found this really kick ass candy store in this crappy town in Idaho. They had these huge ass bags of nothing but red Gummie Bears. So, since I’m like, the nicest, most generous and caring famous guy you know… I bought you a couple bags. I totally remember you getting Gummie Bears when we were kids and only eating the red ones. So… there is your Christmas present. And no… you don’t have to get me anything.
Hopefully we’ll get to come home sometime after the first of the year. Probably won’t be for long though, the tour starts in May, I think.
Now… just because I sent you an awesome Christmas present, don’t think I’ve suddenly developed a soft spot for you or anything. The next time I’m home, I will have some brilliant plan to embarrass the hell out of you in front of everyone you know. Or, I’ll just make you eat worms again. What can I say… I like to stick with the classics.
I’d ask you to tell everybody at school I said hi, but I don’t want to cause hysteria or anything. And ya know… for someone who claims they don’t want to feed my ego, you sure seem to enjoy telling me how much everyone loves me. Or, maybe it’s just code for how much you love me.
Oh… if you sell those videos to anyone… I will murder you in your sleep.
So anyway… send me a yearbook picture or something. The other guys want to see what you look like, and I mostly want to see if you still look like a surfboard.
Merry Christmas!
-Justin
