Dear Kanye,

I've written you once before, and gleefully defended your artistic prowess. This time, though, I'm writing you not as a plea for more of your art, but a solemn request for, well, less of it.

You are undeniably well spoken — and you have some valid points.

Here's the thing, my sweet prince — the world just isn't ready for that kind of wisdom. In small doses, it's OK. And you've had some really great ideas too.

You are undoubtedly a wise and divinely talented dude, and you put a lot of heart into your art. I appreciate that, really, I do. And I appreciate you being yourself. In an industry that is full of artists who are tactful and keep their mouths shut, it's nice to have someone stir up the dust and insult other musicians for not appreciating your own work.

Even though I enjoy every notification I get (yeah I get Tweet notifications, but that's another story), a lot of people have had enough.

There is a surplus of great, powerful and kind tweets in the world, and a very small fraction of those have been delivered by you, Kanye. You have some zingers, that's for sure, but not everyone has the mindset or talent or taste to appreciate them. The more times you Tweet, "I'm not crazy, I'm free," the harder it is for fans like me to defend your choices to people who are lesser fans, or not fans at all, like my peers or sociology professor or that guy with the gauges who works at the pet store.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "I miss the old Kanye."

Every time I play Monopoly, I can't help but think about "straight from the Go Kanye."

Watching rising stars on Food Network reminds me of "chop up the soul Kanye, set on his goals Kanye."

Honestly, "I hate the new Kanye, the bad mood Kanye; the always rude Kanye, spazzin the news Kanye."

More than anything, "I miss the sweet Kanye, chop up the beats Kanye."

One time I was in the hospital having my tonsils out, and "I gotta say, at that time I'd like to meet Kanye."

A good friend of mine, Harriet McDermott has been following Kanye since day one, and she always says, "See, I invented Kanye; it wasn't any Kanyes."

After we talked about how far Kanye has come, we stumbled upon a huge mountain of Kanye West bobble heads, and she said to me, "And now I look around I see so many Kanyes."

Suddenly, out of this mountain of horrifically proportioned dolls, a decrepit-looking man crawled out from the pile of miniature Kanyes. "I used to love Kanye," he said, "I used to love Kanye. I even had the pink polo, thought I was Kanye!"

As he said this, he pulled a crumpled pink mass out of his pocket, and on the cottony fabric the following words were scrawled in a black sharpie, "What if Kanye made a song about Kanye?"

At this point, Harriet and I questioned how we went from a simple open letter to a horrific and sequitur adventure to this old man's hellish imagination.

As we turned to go, we heard the man with the nightmare dream bobble heads yelling back to us, "That song could be called, 'I miss the old Kanye.' Man, that would be so Kanye!'"

It was a fun sweet adventure. That's all it was, Kanye.

We still love you, Kanye.

I love you the way you love yourself.

Love,

Jess