Dear Ms. Pocket;
It is with very little regret that I inform you: It is time for you to move on. I have no more room in my heart than I do in my home for you and your inane and plastic minded 'existence', with your insatiable demands for more more, and still more material C+R+A+P. Not that you and your gang weren't a colorful bunch in the early days (and I don't mean culturally, iykwim, haha!), but that was before you had locked your tiny and surprisingly sharp grip on my young daughter's way-too-malleable mind.
I even remember when you first came into our lives, on Supergirl's third birthday when a friend introduced us - remember? You wore a very cute peasant dress (great for a first impression for the next family, by the way) and brought with you an adorable puppy. Everyone loved you that day - well, all the little girls at least! I was a little suspicious, the way you didn't even touch the cake and bore a slight resemblance to Nicole Richie, but hey - at least proportionally, you didn't look like that other chick who moved into the neighborhood recently, Barbi something or other? Whoa - you want to talk some crazy plastic surgery? Don't get me started on her and her valium-fixed stare!
So, what was that - July? Well, as you well know, by January there were more than sixteen of you and your buddies, setting up some sort of twisted commune in my daughter's bedroom. And by count today, there are at least twice that! (Come on, what was that when your 'new friends' all showed up and crashed Supergirl's party when I had clearly said beforehand NO MORE!? that was just so not cool). I don't care how long you have known Lea, Lila, Rick, Rack ,whatever - just get them packed up now.
At first I thought perhaps we could co-exist. Really, you aren't that big, you eat nothing, and even the whole commune thing seemed do-able in the beginning. I am all for peace love and understanding, communal living - sure it seems like a great idea, almost never works, but hey - you made it seem like maybe it would be possible, to do it in a quiet way. But then, without warning, you put up a mall. Really, did you think I just wouldn't notice? And before any of us could blink an eye, our home was filled with ho-clothes. Seriously, if I wanted my daughter to dress like Britney, I'd buy her a Britney doll.
Back to you and your clothes-horse friends. Oh. My. God. What were you thinking with the bluish-tinged clear vinyl pantsuit? And the black 'leather' with sparkles, cool in an 'off-the shoulder' kind of way? Not. And don't get me started on the massive collection of shoes that would make a sunset boulevard hooker into a porn star overnight. Stilettos with a bathing suit? Really, Polly?
If you have your way, my daughter and millions more will be prancing around in replicas of your slutty-ass clothes before their breasts even consider a growth spurt!
So take your mall full of harlot & whores fashion, your posse of pathetic friends (also bimbos), take your sucky fashion-conscious scooters, your manipulative mermaid buddy, your pathetic boyfriends (hello? they are SO gay. just look at them in the sleigh together. WAKE UP!), and everything else you have stashed under my little girl's bed. Get it out now. Take it off to craigslist or ebay, take it to the dump; I don't care, but I have had enough of your tart-fest.
In sincerity and exasperation;