So here I am, on another Thursday night, nursing this lingering sickness which is starting to resemble the bird flu. I have wrapped myself in an old comforter and am daintily sipping Robitussin to the point that I am starting to feel like I have retreated back into my mother's womb. But no worries, since I'm about to venture into a world I like to call the "Hollywood Trailer Park." Laid out in front of me are brand-spanking-new copies of Star Magazine, US Weekly, and InTouch. Yes, I am that dumb bitch who impulsively buys these trash-tastic tabloids. This is my not-so-secret weakness.
Most people are aghast when they venture into my apartment, dubbed "the maxi-pad," and find copies of these rags spread out on my coffee table. My friend Chris makes fun of me for my obsession with them, but if I leave a copy at his place, I always find it earmarked in the bathroom. When I confront him about it, he just says, "Well, that's where they belong. Crappy magazines belong in the crapper." He's so eloquent with his words.
I read tabloids for the same reasons that someone might watch Cops on FOX. Let's say it's Saturday night, no one is calling you back, and you're antsy as hell to go out. As the time flies by, you start losing faith in your friends, your night, and yourself. The evening slowly leads you to the fridge to finish off that half-container of vanilla icing, and then back to the couch for a lame night of television watching. Then you hear the familiar theme song by Inner Circle — "Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do," — and proceed to immerse yourself in the world of bug-eyed meth addicts, HIV-positive prostitutes, and dumb shits who really think they can outrun the police. Toward the end of the night, you start to think, "Eh, maybe my life isn't that bad." Hence my love for glossy gossip.
I lay here frustrated, lonely, and coughing like I have the plague, but who needs to focus on my life right now? It's Hollywood trailer trash time, because if you take away all the fame, glamour, and obscene amounts of money, celebrities behave like white trash debutantes. Brad left Jen for that skank Angelina (and knocked her up before the divorce was even final), Britney loves her some Cheetos and wife-beater-wearing douchebags, and David Hasselhoff likes to smack his bitch up to the point that there's a restraining order involved ... allegedly. Yee-haw!
It makes me feel better to know no matter how sick, how sad, or how single I am, even celebrities have their bad days and, luckily for me, their sordid soirées are in print for my own sick personal enjoyment. So here's to yet another night of vicariously living through the beautiful people, their flaws, and indiscreet actions. And when I get my health on, I pledge to you that I'll once again put myself out there for your own sick personal enjoyment.