The X Files (or how I ended up in a straightjacket — again)
July 18th, 2007 by Joel Rozen in Music
Oh, sweet Lord. Really?
November 19, 2005:
The day Christina Maria Aguilera and Jordan Bratman were wed was the day I was placed under one of the most vigilant suicide watches in recorded psychiatric history.
It took nearly 14 months before they were willing to disband me from my straightjacket, and another 50 days before I could leave the house unsupervised. I don’t remember much from this period, but I do remember my mother’s hysterical sobs echoing like some sort of distant, ululating baboon, as she begged me to “please promise you’ll at least throw away your Genio Attrapado” LP.
And all I could think was, “Please, God. Make the pain go away.”
Exhibit B.
Soon, however, I was back to my old self — I could even get through certain days without my whole Mulan/Reflection/Diane Warren morning wakeup rituals — and somehow, managed to convince CL that I was okay, that everything was okay. When they hired me, I knew I was finally over her.
Or so I thought.
On July 3, Xtina officially ended all hopes for a full recovery.
Exhibit C.
Her father, Fausto Wagner Xavier Aguilera, first divulged to certain MSM networks (well, if you consider imnotobsessed.com an MSM, which I most certainly do) that Aguilera was preggers. But even then, her fans knew better.
“It’s a lie!” We all said/hoped/whimpered. Fausto Wagner, infamous estranged father whose mixed legacy of spousal abuse and forcing the family to live in a Pittsburgh suburb once reduced Xtina to a fit of inconsolable histrionics on the set of her Stripped World Tour circa 2001, was known for his tall tales. Most excused it as idle gossip. This was not the first time rumors like this had surfaced, and besides, we knew Xtina would always be the first to clear the air. If there were anything we should be up on, she would tell us. Right? Of course right.
Suffice it to say that I just crossed my fingers, hid in the broom closet and waited for the whole thing to blow over.
Exhibit D.
But blow over, it didn’t. A few hours later, E! got a more reliable scoop from the platinum-haired goddess’ peeps, and sprayed her confession all over the wires. Friends and family tried to hide it from me, but I found out soon enough.
Christina Xpecting [I read with horror at the North County Public Library]:
Christina Aguilera is working on converting “Come On Over Baby” into a lullaby…
Pathetic fallacy never seemed more applicable. The following evening, I was at a Fourth of July BBQ, watching the fireworks burn the Sarasota skyline to a fiery crisp. I still couldn’t stop shaking.
Exhibit E.
And then, this.
I’ve now endured two whole weeks of silent agony, of bidding adieu to a once fiercely guarded dream, to muster enough strength to write these words.
The fantasy is over, folks. I will never be Mr. Christina Aguilera. I will never be able to look deeply, lovingly, paternally into those Nordic blue eyes and say, “I’m your baby’s daddy, Xtina. I’m What a Girl Wants and What a Girl Needz.†We will never change diapers together, laugh together when little Lady Marmelade Jr. falters after her first steps. We will never bore our friends together with vacation slideshows of our family trip to the Bahamas: I will never splash Dirrrtily in one photo; she will never look hot in that pajama-halter thing she wore in her “Genie Gets Her Wish†TV special in another.
Still, therapy at this point would be redundant. I must move on.
Send to a friend:
July 19th, 2007 at 10:17 am
Joel hunny . . . it will be okay, there’s still the hope that she’ll have a boy and name it Joel in remembrance of you, her loyally obsessed fan. Besides, there’s darker fish in the sea- mainly I mean Beyonce . . Jay-Z has nothing on you and your charming face . . well, except a billion dollar bank account . . .