Dear Justin Bieber: From the Diary of Anne Frank

Dear Justin,

I’m hurt. Like, emotionally.

While I think it’s super-amazing that you, one of the most cherished young people in history, took time out your busy day to swing by my house, I am writing to you about the fact that you call me a “great girl.”

You must admit, it was a wee bit condescending. After all, I’ve looked down from the clouds these last few years and really considered us more like equals. After all, we have ever so much in common. We’re practically the same person. Shall I elaborate?

We’ve both rocked a deep, messy side part:

We’re both accomplished wordsmiths:

“I don't think of all the misery, but of the beauty that still remains.” --Me

“Swag on you, chillin’ by the fire while we eatin’ fondue.” --You

There are movies about both of our lives:

I was quite honored when the film about my humble existence took home three Academy Awards. The action chronicles the three biggest years of my life and counted down from the religious persecution that drove my family into an attic (my “crib,” as your might say) until the harrowing moment when I get sent to a concentration camp.

Your film (in 3-D, no less. How neat!) is a countdown of the harrowing ten days before what was perhaps your biggest concert. Wow, that must have been a lot of pressure. You know what? I think we both had plenty to pray about.

We both know what it’s like to be hunted like a dog:

People just don’t get it. I know how annoying those paparazzi can be. Tailing your every move? Snapping pics of your every joint puff? Your every hook-up at Selena’s? Trust me, Justin, I get it. I mean, I only had those Germans break down the bookcase that kept my family and friends alive that one time, but it felt so, so--- invasive. I don’t blame you for laying into those jerks. I would have done the same thing.

We’ve both penetrated that elusively fickle American market:

Bravo to us both, sir. Only in America could a skinny Canadian boy on YouTube with a dream and skinny Dutch girl trapped in an attic with a diary both become celebrated household names.

You hoped I’d be a Belieber?

Well, I hope you find me Frankalicious.

Yours Truly,

Anne Frank

Liz Kozak (Editor) is a writer in Chicago who would take commas and hyphens over cake and ice cream any day. She also contributes regularly at The Huffington Post and blogs about stuff at poseypieproductions.com. Follow Liz: @LizKoz