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.”

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Diary,

Hey, Derek again, for the fourth time today. My sister Julianne says that I write in you too much, that it’s obsessive and weird and maybe unhealthy, but she is so wrong. Talking to you is what gets me right. Do you ever feel like you are so tense everywhere and every muscle in your highly-muscular body is clenched like a fist? I feel like that all the time. I have to sleep with a mouth guard in so I don’t bite off my own tongue. Anyway, writing in you, the same thick notebook I bought while on tour in Roma, Italia, is what releases the fist—albeit temporarily.

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Last night was a real mindfuck, diario. We had to do a total of three dances, which of course I can handle no problem as I am a true professional and have been training for a career in mass-market ballroom dance since conception, but sweet, cherubic Bindi was wavering. I dropped her on her hip in rehearsal and she was mad at me after that, although she didn’t say it to my face. So I had to give her one of my world-famous Derek Hough pep talks, the ones that have been winning me competitions and life-long enemies for years.

I said to her, “Bindi, you are a smoldering star.” I said, “None of these other untalented fuckheads have a chance at that mirrorball trophy while you’re in the game. None of them! So get back on the horse or get the FUCK OUT OF MY STUDIO!

And that really spoke to her I think because she has been very quiet and focused around me for the past few days.

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We performed a spectacular salsa dance on an elevated stage in the ballroom in hot pink outfits. I managed to sneak in some choreo to accentuate my hairless pecs—did you see it??? Of course you didn’t. You’re a book. A book filled with dreams.

The judges were meh on it because Bindi didn’t get down and dirrty in her hips enough which I specifically noted her on over and over again but she was like, “No, I’m 17, my mother and small enthusiastic brother are in the audience, I am not going to dry hump you on stage, Derek.” Fine. Whatever. I didn’t want it for me anyway. I wanted it for the dance.

But then, our trio—oh god, I fucking hate that smug, man-bunned Mark Ballas (who always tries to make me seem like I am the DWTS grinch because I am not a grinch, I just like winning and I win all the time)—but it was artistic genius. Give me a MacArthur Genius Grant to go mold the minds of young Mormons who are slowly discovering their passion for competitive couples’ dancing. It was raw, it was meaningful. Carrie Ann Inaba said it could have been plucked from a modern dance company and I agree.

And then they played that cruel trick where they put me and Bindi in the bottom two couples. As if. We are coming back next week for the finale and we are taking this competition or I will quit the show and burn ABC to the ground.

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See you in an hour or less, caro diario.

Baci,

Derek Hough


Contact the author at joanna@jezebel.com.

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Image via ABC.