Dear Esteemed Adele's Physician:
May I begin by congratulating you on the honor of being chosen as the professional privy to the world's most beloved performer. You must be so secretly proud. How I have come by this information of you is of no matter. There is an issue of concern that needs your immediate attention, and I approach you with hopes of a cooperative spirit.
Have you seen Adele's blog posts of late? Her most recent entry contains complete sentences ending with two and sometimes three exclamation points. Gone are the mournful, longing ellipses fragment of posts from 2011.
I am worried. Alarmed that success may bring Adele happiness. With the recent release of 25 -- set to break all records on earth since time began -- Adele may find contentment.
That's bad. Let me put it plainly: no sad no music. As if having to worry about Adele becoming happy weren't enough to scare the melancholy loving me, the most current issue of People documents photographic evidence with a capital E of our once forlorn songbird smiling, wide-mouthed and sparkly-eyed as she rides a bicycle, increasing her endorphins through the roof, with a blazing fire red scarf jauntily tossed around her neck in a devil-may-care knot as big as a Costa Rican butterfly.
Not to spark an international panic, but let's panic first and talk later. Happiness may cause us to lose our glass-hearted contralto.
Which is why I, in the world's name, am asking you this, dear Doctor. When our diamond-throated sparrow comes floating on air into your office for her scheduled pre-world celebratory tour physical exam on the wings of the sky rocket success of 25 -- did I mention set to break all records on earth? -- if she arrives gleefully clad in crimson-rimmed dresses, please keep her teetering on the side of dreams blown into a thousand pieces.
I'll let you collect your breath before I go on.
Please, hear me out, nothing too awful -- after all, she is the world's collective sweetheart - we ask only for a few subtle reminders during conversation of the reality of life and the terribleness of people, enough just to keep her tear-stained pillow from drying.
May I suggest memory triggers of hopes entertained then dashed?
Betrayal by her most trusted?
Life plans not realized, despair in the most unlikely of places -- soul crushing events along that line.
As long as I'm asking, would you matter-of-factly state that she has become too famous for any mortal to not feel intimidated by? Perhaps a reminder that "Rumor Has It" was penned with a seed of germination?
We hope you will agree, Doctor, that a voice like Adele's is too magical and once in an aeon to risk losing in our world. We can't let her get happy.
You will be doing a service to our planet, after all, when does anyone who is deliriously satisfied spend time in introspection? Consider this a universal plea to de-bow our decked in red girl and ever so gently have her psychologically return to the top to bottom black frock attire, one representative of a reflective state.
No one else can set fire to the rain the way Adele did, and does. And with your help, will continue to do.
Of course, you do what you are bound by oath to do, Dr., but just one more plea, if I may: let it slip to her that it's no secret, we're all running out of time. You may mention that all of us have only so many more years, you know.
I leave the world's happiness that is found in mournful lamenting in your hands, Dr. What will we do, where will we turn, if there were to be no Adele when we seek a catalyst for a cleansing cry? There is a reason that the Urban Dictionary lists Adele as a verb.
You may be wondering at this point, if I can even be at peace with the contents of this letter. Yes, I am, knowing that at least I can say that I've tried.