Dear Madonna
Dear Madonna, It seems oddly appropriate that I start a letter to you on Easter Sunday. I have been thinking a lot about you lately, and I know first hand the pain you are going through. You want to hole up in a cave. You want to hold your children close. You are ready to strike at the first idiot who crosses your path. You feel as if your heart has been ripped out and served on an ornate platter. You want the world to shut up, because your torment is not for others' blithe entertainment. You feel no matter how long you lick, your wounds will never heal. You will bitch slap the next person who tries to create logic out of an illogical situation, and personally if anyone espouses, "it was meant to be" or "it's God's will" you have my permission to scratch their snatch out. I know this because my husband, Michael, and I have suffered through eight failed adoptions. Three birth mothers who changed their minds, an incompetent social worker, a fucking Mountai...