A desperate letter from the bankrupt Aaron Carter

Cultural Cadence

Courtesy of Paparazzo Presents via Wikimedia Commons

Hey guys, it’s Aaron. You know, your boy Aaron Carter. The blond-haired wunderkind you probably screamed after at one point or another. I’m writing to you from my brother Nick’s basement. I’ve been living here for a little while now. It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s lonely. I’ve eaten nothing but freaking Hawaiian rolls for four days straight. Even when I muster all my strength and let out a whimpering rendition of “I Want Candy,” there’s only a one-in-100 chance that Nick will open the latch and chuck a Kit Kat down into the basement. I don’t even like Kit Kats. And they’re always all broken and smushed from him throwing them down at me.

Moments ago, while curled up in the fetal position as my tears dropped down to the cold, hard floor, I noticed a scrap of paper nestled in the corner. I scurried toward it, and then, with a pocketknife, I sharpened a pencil I found so that I could get my message out to you guys. Truth is, world, I’m a wreck. I’m a disgrace. I haven’t seen daylight in two weeks. I need help.

You might have heard: I have indeed declared bankruptcy.

Every morning, I wake up and check off another day on my calendar that still reads “November 2000.” Oh, goodness, how I wish it truly was still that time. No, Aaron, it is — it’s still the year 2000, and you’re a superstar. On top of the world. Just close your eyes, and the world can be whatever time you want it to be. Come on, Aaron, squeeze your eyes hard. Come on, Aaron. It’s still your party. Come on, everyone, come get it! But when I close my eyes, I just see more blackness.

Once I look in the mirror propped up on the basement wall, it becomes even harder to deceive myself into thinking that I’m still amid my glory years. My once lusciously gelled blond locks are now frayed and askew. I look as pale as my future. My eyes are sunken into my skull, and I have bags under them the size of the bags of money that I no longer have. I got so upset at the realities that the mirror revealed that I smashed it with my fist the other day, only to severely cut my hand. I let out a loud shriek for help, but Nick just opened my food latch and yelled at me to shut my out-of-key, helpless mouth. Woe is me! Even my own brother has turned on me!

Sometimes, the other Backstreet Boys come over to the house. They all come down to the basement to practice their dance routines from a decade ago before playing darts with a dartboard that has the faces of the *NSYNC guys plastered all over it. Justin Timberlake’s smirk is right on the bullseye. One time, I teased Nick about how much more successful Justin was than him, and he took away all my Hawaiian rolls for two days and yelled at me before storming out of the basement. I then heard them playing FIFA upstairs. Whenever one of them scored, I heard them excitedly exclaim, “Backstreet’s back, all right!” in perfect harmony.

One night such as this, I decided to sneak out of the basement as the Backstreet Boys were engrossed in their practice. I scoured the trash cans out behind Nick’s house for any pieces of food that I could find. I came across some magazines, and I eagerly opened them in order to find some connection with the outside world. Oh, the consolation and the inspiration I got! Amanda Bynes, another teen star, has become a wreck too! Justin Bieber’s hitting up brothels and peeing in buckets! And Miley’s going crazy as well! I’m not alone!

But people are still talking about them, whereas people hardly even know who I am anymore. I must have to do something drastic. Something insane. That’ll get them talking.

At that moment, I stripped all my clothing and streaked down the street while yelling at the top of my lungs. I even jumped up and kicked down a mailbox that I passed by for some extra spice. Apparently, some neighbors called my brother letting him know I escaped, and he pulled up in his Escalade and exasperatedly waved me to get inside within five minutes. No cover of a magazine, no TMZ bit, no headlines, nothing. Nothing came of it except my brother was more careful whenever his bros were over from then on.

This is my current situation. This is my life. From riches to rags. I hope this message somehow reaches people. Please, I beg of you, love me once again. Come free me from my prison. Dr. Evil, if you’re reading this, please come to me with your time machine, and let’s go back to the beginning of the millennium together. Anything. Anyone. Please.

This is Aaron Carter, pop singer extraordinaire who has rotted with time, and I need you.

Contact Taran Moriates at [email protected] or follow him on Twitter: @taranmoriates.