Dear Justin Timberlake,

I appreciate your efforts to bring sexy back, but I fear you have your work cut out for you.

When I heard your dulcet tones and righteous grooves this morning, I was hunched over the wheel of my little beige sedan, trying not to die as I negotiated city streets apparently untouched by plows. Several inches of snow had fallen during the night, yet no one in my fair city apparently deemed it worthy of removal. The going was treacherous.

So: Hunched over the wheel, clutching it wildly at ten and two, gloves with holes at the fingertips on both hands. The rest of my outfit included a white coat with a muddy gray swath across the back, where I had bumped into my dirty beige sedan while trying to get into it this morning. I had on the boots I’ve had since I was in high school, which I for some reason keep even though they give me blisters. And my hair was clipped back in a mad arrangement of barrettes in a feeble attempt to keep it neat until I got to work.

Hot, right?

Ohhhh, yes, it was quite a picture, JT. So while I enjoyed your tune, and am, as I say, grateful for your efforts, I’m afraid sexy has gone and hid somewhere far far away, and you may have to labor long and hard to bring it back.

Go ahead, be gone with it.

Many thanks,

The Girl on the Swing

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