You know, just this weekend, I was defending my love of the Brit. Really, I was. I can't remember how or what brought it up, but there I was, saying, "Of course, I love Britney! Who wouldn't? She's amazing!" I finished this up by pointing out that loving her lately has been difficult, what with the amazing string of bad decisions she's made within the last few years, but then adding that I knew she was working on a new record, and that she'd be back to her old self in no time.
And then, last night (though of course, I'd heard the rumors), she did the unbelievable and confirmed that she's pregnant with her second child. Her second child by the chicken-fried husband who is more leech really than anything else, and who rightfully should fade quickly and quietly away into "Pop-Culture Trivia Land" where he's then relegated to little more than the question, "What awful dancer/rapper fathered Britney Spears' first child?" Alas, on Letterman last night, she confirmed the news during an interview, and then told Dave not to worry, because it wasn't his. (Seriously, Brit, you should do so well as to have David Letterman father your child.)
So this new development will inevitably put to the side the new album, any new videos, and of course, my purchase of a ticket to see her in concert, for a couple more years. I'm upset by this, really. I keep hoping that, one day, she'll be walking through her house, and upon passing a mirror, will stop, look at herself, and say, "What in the hell am I thinking?" That moment, the Brit epiphany, will bring in a new era of delicious pop tart-ness from her, wherein she'll once again amaze us with her lackluster song-writing skills, fair voice, and kicky dance moves.
Oh, Britney, how I miss you.