Dear Ms. Lopez,

Number 1: Fuck you

Number 2: My name is Lawrence Bowtanton and my life was fine, no, perfect without you. I had tons of friends. I was making well into the six figures, and I was bringing home a different girl every night. Then you happened.

You made that shitty movie that no one saw about that dead singer that no one had heard of. Then, the idea that you yourself could actually sing made its way past your 14th Street door knocker earrings into your disgusting head. You made that awful song with that skinny little zero Ja Something and then found the gall to actually start calling yourself J. Lo. That’s when you ruined my life.

I went from Larry, the happiest son-of-a-bitch on the planet, to L. Bow.

I HATE THAT FUCKING NAME!

Now I can’t hold a job, I haven’t been laid since ’04, and I haven’t had a good BM since “Gigli.”

I loved being Larry. I was PROUD to be Larry. I never wanted to be L. Bow. For 10 years now, everywhere I go it’s been “Heeeey, L. Bow!” and then people would unnecessarily elbow my left arm. They never said why, they just did it. I worked on Wall St. Those guys are all HGH riddled mutants with confidence issues. Do you have any idea how badly that shit hurt!?!?

Why would you do this to me Ms. Lopez? Who gave you the right to meddle with people’s identities? And it’s not just me: my friend, Victor Ginakowski killed himself two years ago because he could no longer take the humiliating nickname that you so selfishly burdened him with.

How does that make you feel? How does it feel to know that you single-handedly destroyed, at the very least, two once-proud men?

I hope this letter serves as a wake-up call to you. My only solace lies in the fact that your career appears to have died. Nevertheless, your careless disregard has spawned an entire generation of celebrity nicknames like R. Patz and Speidi, and thus I remain saddled with L. Bow.

For that, I hope you rot in Hell.

Sincerely,
Lawrence Bowtanton

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