Dear Russia: Leave Britney Alone!

Dear Russia: Leave Britney Alone!
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Britney Spears/Instagram

Apparently Russian hackers have been trolling Britney's Instagram, ogling her photos while posting cryptic comments to relay data to secret servers.

I’ve officially had it with the Russians. It’s one thing to roll out the red carpet for a white supremacist that leads to the heart of the West Wing, but to mess with Britney Spears is to strike at the (racially inequitable) heart of our great American dream.

#RESIST, people. #RESIST.

If the Russians are trying to add some levity to their Pinky-and-the-Brain-like plotting of world domination, I totally get it. Spending the day hunched over a metal foldout table with a wobbly leg, stabbing away at the loose keys of a 9-inch netbook while a fur-clad Putin surrogate stands guard with a Stechkin? That would suck so hard.

But Britney’s Insta is her virtual safe space, a space where she can walk the Waikiki coast at sunset, wade freely in the cool waters of the Caribbean Sea, or pose poolside wearing an aquamarine mermaid tail in the privacy of her Thousand Oaks estate. And not unlike the Disney princess who sacrificed her voice for a pair of legs and the love of a man, Britney really is “the girl who has everything.”

She’s got Lisa-Frank-like artwork reposted from users whose hearts may very well pump glitter, downright deep affirmations (”Stay Focused and Extra Sparkly”), and goofy/sexy selfies, aplenty.

She’s got tiny puppies and giant Christmas trees and tree houses that look like castles, and peanut butter and chocolate sundaes, galore.

You want a fashion show? Britney walks the catwalk (the marble foyer in her home) to the tune of her own songs or Beyonce’s, never without a (nearly) perfect twirl at the halfway mark, serving mid-’90s supermodel without a hint of irony.

She paints and giggles, plays basketball like a boss, and gazes wistfully across lush, sun-kissed landscapes in silent, spiritual contemplation.

And it is spiritual, because Britney’s Instagram is a politics-free safe zone. It’s a place where our abominable president doesn’t exist (because if he did, he would be a she, and she would be a naughty My Little Pony), there’s no ban and everyone is welcome, the climate doesn’t change from seventy-eight degrees and sunny, and nobody knows anybody by the name of Kellyanne (which is saying a lot, as the pop star hails from “Britney Jean, Jamie Lynn,” Louisiana).

But it’s not just that. Britney’s Instagram is a portal to a simpler time, a time when we were just getting to know the pop princess herself—long before the meltdowns and shaved heads and umbrellas-used-as-weapons. I can't speak for you, but I’m happy to go back there with her, because America is about to make me have a meltdown of my own.

So please, Britney, take us with you to our yesteryear, when your spray-tanned midriff was fodder for the nightly news, and 9/11 and Newtown were unthinkable; when racism was still a big no-no, and Donald Trump was nothing more than a reality star with plunging ratings and a pocketful of bankruptcies.

And Russia, for the love of all that is holy, leave Britney alone.

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