Girl, we live in a world that has catwalks and those catwalks need to be walked by women in beautiful clothes. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Nigel Barker?

I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Anya and curse Miss J; you have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Anya's loss, while tragic, probably saved fashion and that my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves fashion.

You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties you want me on that catwalk, you need me on that catwalk.

We use words like fierce, fabulous, and supercute. We use then as the backbone of a life trying to defend something. You use them as a punchline.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very fashion I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said "thank you," and went on your way.

Otherwise, I suggest that you put on a couture gown and walk a catwalk. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.