Dear Gwyneth,

Oh, you sweet celebration of sexuality and class. Even after all these years, you are still as beautiful as a blizzard, as majestic as an elk. I feel terrible about the way we left things after our ski trip to Chamonix. Again, I assure you that you did nothing wrong, I was just young and afraid of getting tied down (figuratively). I hope you've since found some semblance of happiness with Chris and those absurdly-named sex trophies you carry around. Hold your head up high, my diamond, there is no shame in compromise.

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You have to let me go.

Now, onto the meat. I noticed that you have taken some heat lately from the press for your website, for your spontaneous music career, and for just generally being you. I imagine your self-confidence is a little shaken and that you would gladly wish it all away, if only you knew how wishing for things worked. Well, I'm writing to tell you that everything will be OK. I come to you not only as a friend, or even former mounter, but as someone who's right there by your side, at the top.

You and I are cut from the same cloth and I assure you, that cloth was very very expensive. The universe bestowed on us the gift to change the world through beauty alone, and we told the universe, "I can give more." Me through my many charities, my peace work in foreign countries and my renowned authorship -- you through that newsletter you do sometimes.