An Open Letter From Miley’s Foam Finger

Dear Public,

I think it only fair that you hear my side of the story, but to do that we must start at the very beginning. 

I was born in a production plant in Ohio where I lived out a humbled childhood. From as far back as I can remember I dreamed of becoming something great. However, my parents weren’t as optimistic for my future. 

Before their retirement they both worked long nights as foam curlers. I don’t blame them for their pessimism. Bratty little girls laid on them night after night just so they could awake the next day with perfectly coiffed ringlets for school picture day. I won’t lie. It took a toll on them after a while. They eventually became so jaded by the polyethylene industry that they didn’t think I would ever grow up to be anything more than a packing peanut. 

I still had dreams, though. I hoped to one day make it to Nashville where I would line the walls of a recording studio. While functioning as soundproofing material I would also witness stars being born and hear songs long before they would ever be released to the public.

When I found out I was going to be turned into a foam finger I was disappointed, but only slightly. I had proved my parents wrong. I was destined for greatness and I eagerly anticipated the fan that would one day don me in celebration of their favorite team. I yearned to be held high above a roaring stadium crowd. “Who cares if I end up in the hands of a New York Jets fan. I also make a really great seat cushion,” I thought.

Flash forward to August 25, 2013 when I was pulled out of a box and handed to a person holding a microphone. I could hear singing and a cheering crowd, but something told me this wasn’t a football game. My memory of what happened next is fuzzy. Despite blacking out several times, I do know that the girl with the microphone violated me in ways I could have never imagined. 

I awoke some time later on a dusty closet shelf where I remain to this day contemplating my existence. This is not the future I had hoped for. I assure you that if I could hold up a different finger I would.

Will I ever be used for something wholesome? 

Will a good samaritan ever come along and douse me with bleach to kill what I’m fairly certain is a severe case of herpes?

My parents were right. I should’ve been a packing peanut. 

Sincerely yet hopeful,

The Foam Finger