Maybe things would’ve been different if I mentioned I was wearing fishnets.
I also enjoy mud wrestling, dancing on the stripper pole in my bedroom and planning a future filled with plastic surgeries.
Do you like me now, Bret Michaels?
I wanted to chat before your performance at H2O tonight. I submitted multiple interview requests through your Web site, but received no response.
I guess every rose has its thorn.
But somehow, I just can’t shake the disappointment.
I wouldn’t have been cruel.
As your concert approached, I let some of my friends participate in a “what should Sonya ask Bret Michaels?” game.
There were a few references to your ability (or lack thereof) to remove the bandanna you frequently flaunt on VH1’s “Rock of Love.”
I smiled, but I knew I wasn’t going to go there.
See, I appreciate your staying power.
I’m sure a good share of tonight’s audience will come to H2O because they appreciate your work as the lead vocalist of Poison.
Chances are, however, that many partiers who show up will come simply because they’re familiar with your work on reality TV.
I think we’ve all incorporated a few “Rock of Love” lessons into our dating lives.
I, for one, make all my potential boyfriends compete in a pre-date challenge involving roller skates and a stroller.
And that whole Tony Awards injury thing? I totally had your back when you collided with the falling scenery.
While others callously replayed the clip on YouTube the next morning, I designed a custom-made bandanna to periodically release aromatherapy to heal your nose fracture.
Speaking of nose fractures, I suffered a similar casualty when I was mud wrestling last weekend. Just saying.
I heard the news about the memoir you were supposed to release this year.
Sources report the book, “Roses & Thorns,” won’t come out until 2010. You seem OK with the delay.
You say there’s now room for anecdotes like the Tony Awards debacle, and all your wild summer happenings.
Maybe you can include my story in there, too.
Your harshest critics say you’re a has-been.
They call you a former rock star who’s succumbed to the world of cheap catfight-driven reality dating shows.
But you still inspired a 20-something journalist — the same girl who has often used “Rock of Love” and “trashy” in the same sentence — to pen an entire column lamenting the interview that never happened.
Your brand of poison hasn’t lost its steam.