gq:

An Open Letter To Katie Holmes

Hey, Katie. KATIE. SNAP OUT OF IT. We’re talking to you! We’ve loved you ever since you first climbed through Dawson’s Van Der Window and into our creepy-in-retrospect sexual fantasies. (Dudes, she was supposed to be like fourteen.) We loved you for your wholesome cuteness. We loved you for your shiny, shiny hair. We loved you for those dimples—like the baby Jesus shot you in the face with an air rifle. Twice! We loved you so much for The Gift (seriously, thank you) that we still Google image it every month or so to make sure it really happened.

But most of all, we loved that you actually made good movies. The Ice Storm? Great! Go? A FINE ENSEMBLE ROMP. The Wonder Boys? The only stupid part is when Michael Douglas doesn’t want to have sex with Katie Holmes. (We can only suspend so much disbelief, Hollywood.) And then, okay, you decided to become Tom Cruise’s Porcelain Incubator Robot. Fine. We were willing to go with it.

But did you have to turn your movie career into the Katie Holmes 24-Hour Garbage Party? Because jeeeeeez, are you ever garbagey now! This month you’re in two lousy movies: the Channing Tatum thriller The Son of No One—a movie about the offspring of all the people who might enjoy it—and Jack and Jill, in which Adam Sandler plays his own sister. Farts abound, indubitably. Why are you doing this to us, Katie? Is it blackmail? Gypsy curse? Is Tom punishing you because you spilled white wine spritzer (your “medicine”—we totally get it) into his e-meter? You’re better than this, Katie. Please come back. Blink twice if you need help.

Sincerely,
GQ

As a Dawson’s Creek fan, I second this.