Justin Bieber

I looked the other way when you started dating Selena Gomez, because I know it’s just some PR move and that you don’t really love her and that you didn’t really hold hands at the IHOP, and despite what my letters sent in the December of 2010 and the January of 2011 say, I know that you weren’t and aren’t trying to hurt me. I looked the other way when you did that song with Chris Brown, because I want you to do well in your career, no matter how gross Chris Brown is. I even looked the other way when I saw that video of you that displayed your inability to name all seven continents, because I thought it was kind of cute and that it was something we could do together, learn first grade geography. But this? This is too far.
When you got your first tattoo with your dad, the one on your ribs of the Hebrew word for “Jesus,” I was furious. You remember. I thought it was awful that you were tainting your pure tender flesh with permanent ink, no matter what the message was. I thought that you had forever defiled yourself, and that was very upsetting to me. And you knew that, Justin, you knew that. I mentioned it in many letters, my disappointment. It wasn’t a secret.
Over time, I grew to accept the tattoo. I’m not saying it wasn’t hard, because it was. It was way hard. But when you love someone, when you truly love someone with all your heart and soul, you accept them completely, no matter what. “So he wanted to get a Jesus tattoo,” I said. “Is that the end of the world?