DEAR MRS. OBAMA GET OFF MY F**KING BACK! I LIKE BEING FAT! LOL!

Dear Mrs. Obama,

First, I'd just like to say that I never write these kinds of letters. Well, almost never. When I was 12 years old, I wrote a fan letter to an oh-so-dreamy Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids on the Block, and when he didn't respond I was absolutely crushed. But I now feel compelled to lift my 20-year moratorium on celebrity outreach in the hopes that you're a better pen pal than he turned out to be.

Secondly, I'd like to point out that in my capacity as a scathing provocateur with almost no journalistic integrity, I've maintained, as a general rule, that I don't use my public platform to attack presidential wives or children. You didn't run for office, after all, and no one deserves to be Chelsea Clintoned. Besides, "Saturday Night Live" has that market pretty well covered.

So, with those caveats out of the way, let me get to my well-intentioned point. Since I've left you alone, I was wondering if I might enjoy the same luxury. See, as much as I appreciate your effort to trim my waistline and keep my as of yet nonexistent children healthy, your meddling in how I - and millions of other Americans - live is starting to feel more than a little meddlesome.

Look, I didn't say anything when you persuaded Walmart to make thousands of its packaged food items healthier and lower how much sugar and sodium - my two favorite ingredients - many popular items contain. Walmart has 140 million customer visits a week, and I am sure at least some of these shoppers also have a hankering for these two beleaguered staples of the American diet. Otherwise, the ice aisle would take up the whole store.

And I didn't say anything when you had the President slip a provision requiring restaurants to print nutritional information on menus into his health care bill. When I embark on a gluttonous food orgy, as I am wont to do on birthdays and Tuesdays, the last thing I want is to know exactly what I'm eating. If a plucky hot dog vendor in midtown Manhattan would prefer to keep me in suspense, I'm happy to honor that sacred covenant.

But if you want to mess with our portion size, I have to draw the proverbial line in the sand. According to The New York Times, the latest project of your anti-obesity campaign - Let's Move! - is "a bid to get restaurants to adopt . . . smaller portions and children's meals that include healthy offerings like carrots, apple slices and milk instead of French fries and soda."

Given your interest in the health of children and adults alike, I can only assume you'll soon be pushing for smaller and healthier adult portions, too, so that instead of the 40-ounce porterhouse for two that I like to order for one, I'll have to settle for the really petite fillet. Or worse, tofu.

Which also brings me to another question: Are you calling me fat?

As an aspiring teenage ballerina, I was gently prodded on more than one occasion to kindly return that apple I'd just ingested. But after a considerable amount of therapy (and having rather missed seeing mammary glands below my neck), I decided to embrace the novel act of eating.

And, in the process, I learned to reject utter restraint and instead practice reasonable self-control. That's the best we can do for our children: Not endlessly hound them, but teach them how to think for themselves about right and wrong, healthy and harmful. Yet when a First Lady or a government agency wants to dictate how much dinner I deserve to have, and how it should be prepared, I am once again under the harsh gaze of my ballet instructors, and my ability to control myself like the mature adult I am is replaced by an omniscient regulator's guidelines.

I understand what you're trying to do, and I agree that we should raise healthier kids. Fewer video games and more soccer is a great start. But ultimately, responsibility has to be taught, instilled and enforced - not mandated by law. It has to come from parents and guardians, not from Capitol Hill.

Besides, don't you like having choices? I saw the spread you offered guests at your Super Bowl party, and I have to say, well done! Bratwurst, kielbasa and buffalo wings are three of my favorite food groups, and by, my count, you celebrated the almighty potato four different ways. And I know you're far too gracious a hostess to have rationed out your guests' portions - surely, Jennifer Lopez can be trusted with as much deep-dish pizza as she wants.

All I'm asking - and I've never asked you for anything before - is for a little confidence in my ability to make good decisions. Like the time I decided to go to Black's Barbecue instead of the Salt Lick.

Well, thanks for hearing me out. Maybe one day we can go out to lunch for a little girl time over French fries and ice cream. Though if you choose to have a salad instead, I won't object.

Yours,

S.E.

LADY WRITES A LETTER TO MICHELLE OBAMA: DEAR MRS. OBAMA GET OFF MY F**KING BACK! I LIKE BEING FAT! LOL! I AGREE WITH HER! TO EACH, IT'S OWN!

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