Sad Dancing With The Stars Diaries: Bindi Irwin Gets Real

Sad Dancing With the Stars Diaries is a series in which we imagine the innermost feelings of Dancing With the Stars contestants, as written in their “journals.”

G’day diary,

It’s me, your favorite cartoon toddler Bindi Irwin.

Jesus fucking Christ I am so tired of this motherfucking compe-fucking-tition.

My stupid fucking manager—the same one who signed me up for this—thought that it would be a good idea to fashion my persona as some kind of saccharine marshmallow. I suppose he is brilliant because every fucking American is eating it up. But I am dying. I haven’t been sarcastic in months. My jaw hurts from fake smiling. Every night I fall asleep whispering “cocksucker” to myself, and every morning I stab myself in the gums with a pine needle—just to remember what it’s like to feel something real.

Stupid fucking psychotic Derek Hough, my cheery partner, is the most sincere person I’ve ever met. But I look into his face sometimes in rehearsal, diary, and wouldn’t you guess it—there’s nothing. He’s like a porcelain doll with glass eyes. And then when we get on the show, or do taping for one of the packages he springs to life, like some kind of electronic robot turning on.

This week was “Icons” week, and “I” “picked” Grace Kelly. For no reason. I don’t know who the fuck Grace Kelly is—some fucking princess actress? How is she my icon? I am basically a zoologist and this show’s fucking producers gave me a fucking princess as my fucking icon?

In the package this week they showed my beat-up feet—all my toenails falling off, and me being an adorable, submissive peach about it all. Guess what, America? I ripped my toenails off my feet with a fucking rusty pair of pliers that I found backstage!!! How do you like Bindi now?

Pinch me in the back of the arm really hard, diary. Karate chop my shins. Make me feel pain.

Regardless, I am doing amazing. I did the foxtrot to that Mika song, “Grace Kelly,” and I got a 28 which is fine. Julianne Hough told me I was in a “class of my own,” which is nice for her to finally say out loud. But she and that fucking fuck Bruno Tonioli said my shoulders weren’t right and I’m going to put a poison snake in each of their beds later. Andy Grammer got voted off, which, whatever, I feel no emotion anymore, and Nick Carter got a perfect score and got immunity which is fine—that former star deserves one night of feeling like he’s the best. I’m happy for the break.

Goodnight, diary. I’m going to go gargle a bottle of Murphy’s Oil Soap and hit myself over the head with a frying pan.