Dear Joan Crawford,  

Let me start by saying that I am a huge fan of you and your work. I have seen as many of your films as are available, unfortunately that’s a little less than half of the pictures you’ve made, because people don’t like you and think you are scary. NOT ME! I think you’re AWESOME!

I have a collection of about 13 biographies written about you, one of my favorites is, “Conversations With Joan Crawford” in which you were interviewed right before your death and pretty much just drunkenly shit talk other celebrities and the American public for being ugly and having bad style. You also discuss that once you realized you had become ugly yourself, you just decided not to leave your house anymore.

Another one of my favorite biographies devoted to you is “Joan’s Men”, which is all about dudes you married and dudes you had sex with. My personal favorite story in that book is the one were you invited Rock Hudson to your house to swim in your pool with you, snuck up on him while he was changing into his suite and told him to “fuck you like he’d fuck Clark Gable”. That is a really creepy thing to say to a person, but from what I understand it worked out in your favor, so way to go!

I’m really sorry that your ungrateful little asshole of a daughter wrote that book about how you beat her up. I think you worked really hard to become a famous lady and now people just think you were a crazy drag queen that enjoyed chopping trees down in the middle of the night with axes. I think that the least that dumb daughter of yours could have done is to publish the book while you were still alive, like Bette Davis’s daughter did. At least then you would have the chance to defend yourself. But what’s done is done. I’m just sorry that no one remembers what a killer fox you were. Instead of looking back on the sweet shit you came up with to say like, "Don't fuck with me, fellas. This cowgirl has been to the rodeo before" or “I never go outside unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want to see the girl next door, go next door.” It’s just “no more wire hangers” while you’re beating your kids up. I doubt you even did that but if Christina Crawford was anything like that kid that played her in the movie, she probably deserved it! You took her into your home and how does she repay you? By being a back talking, ungrateful, little orphan ass hole.  

So what if you were super into cleaning your house! It’s your mother fucking house right? I wish you were still alive and wanted to come over and clean my house. It’s a mess! I would be sure to stalk up on your signature cocktail, Vodka with a dash of Pepsi Cola and we could talk shit about Bette (my allegiance is of coarse with you) while you scrub the tile in my shower. 

Regardless of what has been said and done, I hope you're up in heaven, sitting in the largest trailer they've got,  sipping on a cocktail, and staring at a walk in closet chock-full of the finest "Gowns by Adrian" all neatly draped over ivory white hangers made from the bones of your enemies, wrapped in plush velvet, and incrusted with the diamonds given to you by your many homosexual lovers! No more wire hangers for you Ms. Crawford!

Not in heaven. 

Your friend,

Alexandra Cartwright