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Christina Aguilera, I am about to do an intervention on your skinny little white ass.

I am telling you that you've got to get it together, lady.

I saw you once on that fluffy video channel diary show where viewers get a glimpse of music makers' so-called daily life. Honey, you were so fragile. You were being driven in the back of that SUV and you were gazing out the tinted window with your blue Gucci sunglasses and matching cell phone by your side. You were lamenting over how hard it is to be on the road, but how you love the fans. ("I thank god for them everyday," you said and then various shout-outs ensued.) Then you segued into the whole love/hate triangle between you and white boy rapper Eminem and that overgrown bully Fred Durst from of Limp Bizkit and somehow you managed to wrap up that candid mess of a monologue with a nervous smile. "It's all good, though," you said. "It's all good."

I know you were holding back the tears all the while, picturing all of your high school friends from home, whom you used to be so close with, hovering over their Christina Aguilera barbie dolls preparing to stick pins in the knees and chop off those damn yellow hair extensions.

Listen to me. You've got a lot going against you.

You recorded a latin album, but everyone knows you don't speak a word of spanish. That's where Shakira's got you beat. And though technically you've got the voice, you sealed your fate as the trailer trash teen next to Britney Spears' wholesome girl-next-door. Now Brit's leaving the little girl image behind so that she can shtup Justin Timberlake and still make her younger fans believe she's a virgin. But you, Christina, have got nowhere else to go. Everyone knows you let that dirty old man Durst in your Versace leather pants before Britney could even bring herself to mouth the word "penis".

Then you did that remake of "Lady Marmalade." I almost had to cover my peepers when I saw you in the video paired up with singers Maya and Pink and girl rappers Missy Elliott and Lil' Kim. Next to those hoochie mommas you looked like a five-year-old playing dress-up in mommy's "sexy things". I thought that lion's mane of a wig was gonna make you topple right over.

Look, I'm on your side. I may not like you, but I worry. I think your headed for a fall down that steep celebrity cliff off of Mount Toomuchtoosoon and I'm here to tell you to pull in the reins, girlfriend, before it's too late. I had a strange premonition that one day you pop up at some gratuitous music award show so made up that you look more like Michael Jackson than, well, Michael Jackson. Can plastic surgery be so far off? You could be under the knife right now while I'm sitting here, frantically typing for your life.

I'm telling you what I told Tito Jackson to tell his little brother: Pack it in. You need serious help. I'm of the opinion that everyone should be required to go to therapy. And then, after a few good sessions that make you want to slit your wrists, the headcleaner will tell you whether you need lithium, shock therapy, or just two valium and a call from Oprah Winfrey in the morning.

Go, Christina. Cut yourself out of those lace-up denim jeans, rip off those painted press-on nails and take a turn on the couch for 40 minutes. When you come back you won't seem so tragic. And I won't have to spend so much time worrying about you.

Let me know how it pans out, will you?