Hi. Me again. Well, maybe not again, necessarily, but it's me nonetheless. I might be your illegitimate child, I'm not sure. But my mom, she loves you. Loves. You.
Come to think of it, I think I have your nose. Maybe.
Anyway, the point of my writing to you is this - you're doing a horrible thing, Jon. You're touring. Again. You're coming to a neighboring state, a neighboring city, within 500 miles of my mom. She needs to see you in concert. Again. Do you know, Bon, she saw you just months ago? Months.
And now, Jon Bon, the pressure is on me, your might-be illegitimate daughter. (Don't you remember? That one time? A concert? Mom was there. You may have looked at her funny, and bam, here I am. Didn't know "the look" could impregnate women, did ya? Did ya, Mr. Jovi? Psh, irresponsible).
Anyway, so this tour of yours. Word on the street says local radio stations are handing away tickets to the 108th caller, or the 300th e-mailer, or whoever knows all the words to "Bed of Roses," I don't know. But the pressure has been laid upon my shoulders to win tickets, Bon. For mom. And me, of course. The least I could do is witness the spectacle that just might be my illegitimate father.
But I don't win things, Jon Bon Jovi. I don't. The last thing I won was a blanket at a family reunion. And half a blanket, at that. I can't even win a full blanket, how do I win tickets for my mom (plus me)?
She's waiting on pins and needles, Jon. I can't even call her without getting her hopes up. I have to respond to her squeals of excitement that is "Hello" with, "No, Mom. No tickets yet." Soon she's going to start hanging up on me, I just know it.
Look what you're doing to my family, Mr. Bon. You're tearing us apart. So when I do win tickets, Jon, to your concert, I'll be demanding a paternity test. And I will win tickets. I'll do it.
Then maybe, after we take the test, you can autograph it. For mom, of course.
Krista (Bon Jovi?)