Jan 22, 2013, 05:15AM

More Choice Excerpts From Beyonce Knowles, Selected Letters, Vol. 1

Because 2013 is Bey's year.

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Piggybacking on a new Destiny's Child single, Beyonce Knowles' forthcoming Super Bowl performance, and implications suggesting that a follow-up to 2011's 4 is nigh, Random House has leaked additional excerpts from Beyonce Knowles: Selected Letters, Vol. 1, which is still due in time for Christmas 2013.

The McRib
I just added you to my pre-concert rider; it's like I friended you! No fries—just you, boo.

Victoria Soto
Your selfless sacrifice inspired me beyond measure, and yet I fear I cannot begin to measure up to the ultimate altruism you exemplified on that Sandy Hook battlefield, or killing field, or slaughterhouse-institution massacre, or whatever, how are we meant to assign adverbs to so horrific a circumstance? Would I take a bullet for someone in my entourage? Could I? Or, in that moment of disorientation and fear, would I shove my makeup girl through the doorway towards a madman's steaming rifle muzzle? I fear I am little more than a glamorous coward, an imp as far as bravery goes, not worthy to so much as hum the naggling, Tricky Stewart-expensive demo I wrote called "Victoria Soto" in the shower or while flossing through downtown Houston in one of a series of custom-built candy-paint whips.

Morgan Uceny
We make our own luck.

Damn you, haunting my dreams.

Mykki Blanco
Some mornings I wake up under thousand-thread count sheets, in four-poster beds carved from Mississippi mahogany, the taste of Ciroc lingering on my palette, and I'm forced to ask hard questions about who I am, and where, and what's troubling is the cognitive leaps required to arrive at solid conclusions. Some mornings I am Alice in Wonderland; other mornings I'm Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, Detta Susannah Walker, or Nikki Minaj, until I convince myself that I'm really and truly me—which is to say, I'm Bey, re-igniting my consciousness in a chalet, by a bay, perhaps in May. So what I'm trying to get across, I guess, is that I know very well what it is to feel hopelessly confused and misunderstood—adrift—even within myself, and in that sense I feel that we are kindred spirits, you and I.

The Pope
In your last communiqué, delivered two fortnights ago, you insisted that you would pray for Solange, that she might win a Grammy, or at least be nominated for one, or at least be invited to a Grammy after party where she could meet Barry Gordy. Does Barry Gordy even know who I am?

Iris Atapow & Willow Smith
Give bangs a chance.

Diane Warren
You—you—complete me, in a way that's difficult for me to square or accept given my conventional understanding of personhood and sexuality. Your demos are eerily, unfailingly on point, like that one joint you sent me where the lyrics were like "I can't believe Di scooped my emotions like some 31 Flavors rocky road" and those words mimicked my thoughts exactly. And then last week Shawn and I couldn't decide whether to hit Mr. Chow's, P.F. Chang's, or Hardee's, remember? And Shawn got out his magic 8-ball but it was busted, but when I hit you on the text like "Diane!!!" and straight out you hit me back with "Mmphis BBQ 6 dlr Thckbgr bitch" on some Single White Female shit.

Alexander, Second Duke of Windsor

Didn't you get any of my letters?

  • I have a deep hatred of Beyonce reserved exclusively for her, apart from all other meaningless celebrities. She's sooooo fake! She seems obsessed with all the aspects of celebrity that are totally worthless and disgusting, like archiving every picture of her ever taken, her clothes, her look, her money, her power. Music is way down the list. She just seems so robotic to me.

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