Dear Kanye,


Apparently, screaming like you’re Lion-O en route for battle with Mumm-Rana is your new thing so I figured it’s best if I greet you accordingly.

You know, Yeezy, many of your fans might be deluding themselves into thinking that your recent onstage volume-high diatribes are instances of you bucking the system, being a free spirit, artistic or some kind of nonsense like that. God bless the believer, but nah, don’t let them enable you.

First off, on you bashing Justin Timberlake and Jay-Z’s “Suit and Tie”: It’s typically considered in poor taste for a peer to publicly bash another. Besides, we all know if Hov hopped on stage and talked about what a huge disappointment Cruel Summer was you would’ve recorded at least six songs bemoaning how much he hurt you: “Lamborghini mercy, I thought my big brother loved me.”

Also, I find quite peculiar how you, man who consistently gets mushy with materialism, suddenly wanted to bash the very sort of mindset that helped make you a millionaire several times over.

Then again, I’m operating under the assumption that you’re in your right frame of mind when offering this commentary, which leads me to this proclamation you made in Paris: “I am Michael Angelo [sic]. I am Basquiat. I am Walt Disney. I am Steve Jobs. Of this music s**t? Please!?”

When I was 13, I walked around telling people – including my own mama – to call me Batman. Why? It felt right to me. I imagine in response my mom kicked up the number of rosaries she said daily out of concern for my well-being.

It may sound fun in your head, but please stop this, especially if you’re going to follow it all up with assaulting a microphone. You are 35.

On stage screaming isn’t the answer. Neither are two-hour long Twitter rants about projects comprised of “architects, graphic designers, directors musicians, producers, AnRs [sic], writers, publicist, social media experts … app guys, managers, car designers, clothing designers, DJs, video game designers, publishers, tech guys, lawyers, bankers, nutritionists … doctors, scientist, teachers.”

By the way, you broke so many hearts when you didn’t reply to any of those people who submitted their resumes to that Gmail account.

I haven’t seen a public figure in this big a need of a Dr. Frasier Crane in their lives since Britney Spears tried to cut a paparazzo down to the white meat with a big umbrella. You’re not there yet, but I worry you’re only a five dollar cab ride away. That worries me because aren’t you about to be someone’s father?

At least with Britney, she had parents that could step in and prevent total catastrophe. Plus, she’s blond, and well, America does what she can to save its favorite shade of crazy. Such luxuries don’t exist for the anguished Black man.

The closet thing you have is Kris Jenner, whom I fear won’t step until your antics begin to affect sales of the Kardashian Kollection at Sears.

Now in a recent interview, the mother of your child, Kim Kardashian claims: “I have this best friend who understands me and helps me through all my tough experiences, and vice versa, you know? It just feels like this is it for me.”

Vice versa, huh?

Is she telling you, “Hey, babe. Maybe you shouldn’t throw microphones on the ground in fits of rages. And yeah, bashing the homie, not cool, ‘Ye?”

I don’t know, but I’m telling you: Please go talk to a medical professional about whatever it is troubling you. I hate to see rich people waste their blessings and miss out on the best access to help money can buy. Hurry: you’re freaking people out.

Michael Arceneaux is the author of the “The Weekly Read,” where on the surface the shade might make the culprit want to curse, but trust, it comes from a place of concern. Tweet him at @youngsinick.