A letter to the fans
By: Pop Queen Artist
Presented by Vogue, Glamour, People, Cosmopoliton & CosmoGIRL, Instyle, Seventeen Magazine, and Pop Icon Magazine
(January Issues)

December 29, 2013



    It's been five years today since the release of "Wonderland, how Wonderless," my first album. I thought I'd throw on display my true feelings, my true life. I won't lie. I'm an attention whore. Adoration. It's my world. My dirty desire, feels so fucking good. I crave that shit like little kiddies crave cavities crawling through their infantile teeth; rotting them away with pure euphoria. I can't stop you. Nothing can stop me now. Just like you can't stop a tsunami terrorizing the tremendous continent of asia with tremmors of tragedy. However, even if I'm not praised from all sides, enveloped in a blanket of admiration and love I'd still write my music, I'd still sing my songs. I don't think I could get by without them. Maybe I could if I was still worshiped as I am, a golden goddess greeted by the prayers of the masses from dawn 'till dusk, and all through the deepest parts of night.
    I've horrible. I just want the love. I don't care who you are, as long as you're mine and give me everything you have. Let me eat your soul, rape of you your will and make you my adoring puppet. I'll never stop. Not even in death. I swear, I've become such a global fucking phenomenon it's impossible to stop this slithering serpent. I'm an icon inhabiting every continent, island, and space station there is.
    To be honest, I've gone through more starstruck sweeties than Sisco and Ebert have sat through moving picture stories. More boys than sabbaths have passed, more men and wemon than the casualties of the Revolutionary and U.S. Civil Wars combined and multipled by a million, maybe two. I'm a horrible whore, but it gets me off so greatly to see them kneel, grovel, and beg for my love. I've gotten the sweetest little things to indulge in the dirtiest, fetishie fantasies this fucking supernova singer can dream of.
    My words, songs, lyrical lullibies, and metallic ballads of rockin' riffraff are my heart and soul. Unbound as a newborn baby, able to become whoever and whatever it wishes to be in this withering world.  Within my songs I'm pure, purely me and inconcievably free, just like that baby. I sing of love from time to time, love I've felt long before this lusty attention whore made her way out. I sing of pains forgotten now, made immortal by easy memorizable melodies with lyrical wonderment and the voice of an angelic astronaught calling out to each and every star in the galaxy, maybe further as her vocal strings can strum themselves for an eternity.
    I'm the queen of vain, source of every lover's pain, and my accountant's bane. I've brokem a marriage or two, or three, fourty-three, maybe fifty. I've had three ways with couples, married or not. Played my way into a gay boy's bed, payed my way into another's. All of them adoring me for all I've done, all I've sang, everywhere I've seen that they wish to see, who all I've met that they wish to me. I love being envied as much as adored. As long as I'm their fixation that leaves them fidgeting and fearing, fucking in their fantasies, and begging for on their knees I'm happy as can be.
    Without their praise I am lost. Empty as a every human soul lingering on this cold, spinning rock we call Earth. Gravity pulls down my soul, grabbing me innopropriately - groping me, trying to take me without a single care as to who I am or why it's raping me other than the fact that I've got beautiful bouncy breasts, healthy ones at that. I could never quit singing, stop writing my words down, and sharing them with the rest of those poor empty souls being raped by this emptiness we know as being a plain, normal person. I'll never abandon my cause, no matter how empty it could be, as that's just not me, not I, not her, not this stellar slut for sweet words of priase.
    I long to settle, sit, stay with one special spuratic person with much less spunk and starlight than I've gained. I care not for status, cash flow, popularity, gender when I seek attention for a night, maybe two, three, weeks tops. Any fuck will do, as long as it's a good one, and their screaming my name from start until they fall asleep, maybe still after that, as long as I'm their only thought at that time. When it comes to love, the love I've started to miss, to want to kiss and embrace; take back once and for all, I want someone plain. Someone ignorant of the world, who lives behind closed doors with closed ears and open sores seeking someone to want them for who they are, hiding from the world as they know that's fairly impossible, but someone who will love me for all those reasons.
    I think I could control myself, give up the sex with stranger after stranger only to hear their praise, their words of admiration, how lucky they are to fuck the queen of the scene, that "Golden goddess with a voice that never ceases to pull us in and absorb us in it's entirity." I'll still be praised, adored, loved, stared at in magazines by teenage boys single handedly turning the page. Someone passionate, with a poisonous personality, a sarcastic and sadistic sense of humor, that'll touch me so soft and tenderly it'll send goosebumps down my back and make my heart flutter like a pubescent child when their crush realized they exist.
    The kind of person I'll never find, never spy out of the corner of my eye for even an instant and never realize what I just missed. Such people stray away from demented queen of vanity and lust like me. Someone like that norweigan author Bjerke that I've read so, so many interviews with and little magazine articles about. He's a romantic, through in and through out, true as I've ever heard, too good to be true, but believably and ever free. His heart seems torn, those open sores that even I admit I adore, his spirit so free, writing about things he shouldn't be able to possibly concieve. No interest in the current events and pop culture of this world, the kind of guy that adores virgin purity. The kind that could never love me.
    I've never seen this man, not even spied him out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I've been lucky enough to and just don't realize it, but hopeful thinking only leads to heartbreak. I've never even seen a picture, it matters not. He matters not. I long for someone like that, using him merely as an example to more precisely personify my kind of guy, actually, it doesn't need to be a guy at all. A girl will do just as well. Preferably a little older, too. I could never stand withering, wrinkling, losing my mind, becoming a feeble pathetic fool before their eyes as they remain young and beautiful.
    No, I must outlive my significant other. I must watch my fame and adoration grow on, and on, and on. Striving for infinity, hoping to breach the unbreachable and collapse this universe apon itself and destroy everything sacred, including my own perfect legacy just so that I'm the last thing this universe ever knew and the one to bring it down to boot. My words seem so violent, so volotile, disgusting, deplorable, and down right delightful. So like my songs, so unlike my songs, never close to them, but the core of their very life. A paradoxial prop, a fancy facad frivilously furiating my fans.
    But you'll just have me on your mind more often now, consumed by ridiclous rage with contemplating your contempt you'll only come to love me, adore me, admire me, and envy more more than you already do. You're fucked. You're mine. My slave. My one night stand, just one of many millions of good times. My plot has unfolded, and it's working. You can't deny me, defy me, trade in your loyalty. I'm your vain queen, your golden glimmering goddess of Glamour, Vogue, People, and so many more. So many pages for so many teenage boys to turn with that one hand, to crust together only to purchase more back order issues, while girls are ordering them, too, trying to decide if age has defined my beauty more or if my fashion is as fabulous now as it was back then.
    I've won. My confessions have only made this phenomenon inflate to something greater than the tragedy of the Titanic, to massive proportions comparable to Mt. Everest. You've seen me bare naked and spread, entered my chest and felt my heart beat with frivilous lust, sorrow and maybe regret, who knows? Not even me anymore. Oh, assassins, be forwarned! You'd only be helping. You'd make it worse. Everything you did would be in vain! As I said, I've won.

Until we meet like this again my adoring loves,
Julianna Altessa
Aka
Queen Alice

P.S. - If you pass me by, catching me in the corner of your eye, fitting my deplorable description of my ideal lover, then scream your name to the skies and let it ring through the clouds and rain down on my mind heavily as can be. I'll call it out back, scream it, too, sing it to the stars and the oh so wonderful heavens the Christians pretend to see, begging you to free me from chains of "tradition." I won't catch you in mine, I know you know this, but I'll find you, even if I'm out of sight by the time you scream I won't let you fade out of mind. I'll seek you out, stalk you, slither in the shadows until I've found you. I'm so, so lonely. That was the true purpose of this pompous letter.