Wednesday, June 6, 2012

I have an on-again-off-again relationship with celebritydom. Most of the time, I couldn't really care much less about what various famous people do with their time or what they wear or what they eat. They shit and have a favorite band and probably had one nasty thought about George W. Bush at some point, just like the rest of us.

There's a part of me that feels sorry for them, really - constantly trying to keep themselves valid by any means necessary, having to always be 100%, etc. And the scrutiny? Ew, no, thank you. No one needs to know that I wear ratty old gym shorts, a thinning T-shirt, and Frye boots to the grocery store because they're the closest things between me and the door. And apparently, going somewhere naked gets you arrested. So. And then there's the relationships. Oh, the relationships. I admire people that keep their personal lives out of the media, although I'm not quite sure how they do it. Stay boring when they're not on screen or on stage? Unicorn sacrifices? Who knows?

So I guess my way of letting them have their privacy is ignoring them most of the time.

I go through phases, however, that are infrequent but regular enough to make me wonder about my sanity. I guess it's that part of me that always KIND of wanted to be famous. To go to fancy parties and talk with other famous people. To go on talk shows and podcasts and market my books/stories/screenplays/movies/whatever. During these times, I stalk various fashion magazines (I KNOW, IT'S BAD FOR MY MENTAL HEALTH) and celebrity websites, looking for inspiration on what my wardrobe should look like (even though the rest of the time, I'm like, "It's clean? Cool.") and keeping up with the latest gossip. I even dream about moving to LA or NYC or some place that isn't Nashville where, like, famous people that aren't country music stars and Nicole Kidman live.

Right now is one of those times.

It's similar to those periods where I'm all about makeup and hair and talk incessantly about pin-up styles.

Like, I lalalove this look but for fuck's sake, SO. MUCH. WORK. I'm lucky if I can 1) find a red lipstick that does not look either magenta or orange on me or 2) keep my makeup from just melting off, even WITH primer. Also, my rack is not NEARLY that impressive.
I'll almost buy dresses and Dior mascara and study techniques for cat eyes, but ultimately, I end up just putting on some Maybelline mascara and Chapstick and heading out the door. Ah, the plans of mice and men.

Even as I sit here, I have about seven other tabs open, one of which is InStyle and another is People. Hell, I may even go to the US Weekly site. Probably not, since even the idea just kind of makes me shudder, but it's a thought that I've entertained before. I don't really obsess over singular people; it's more of a generalized *cue Robin Leach voice* "LIVE LIKE THE STAAAHHHHS!" feeling.

I'm not even sure what starts these binges. I think part of it this time is because I'm so fed up with my job and really just want to focus on writing and soap making and marketing and blah blah blah, which could also be a symptom of me being over social work. Another part is because I'm a Sagittarius and, well, we are instigators that get bored pretty easily with routine. The internet has definitely made it easier to live other places and still reach a large audience, but fuck, it's frustrating when everything supposedly creative goes towards writing more drinking ditties.

Maybe we never truly escape our 14-year-old fantasies, where you take your hairbrush and thank the Academy and also your mom for always believing in you. Looking at celebrities and their kind of annoyingly lavish lives is a wish-fulfillment of sorts. My imagination is pretty vivid, and I can just picture myself in the spotlight, adding refreshing commentary that absolutely no one else could, and the emcees on the red carpet would just be all, "Oh, Juju is such an approachable person, isn't she? She's like one of us!! Now, tell us about your diet and exercise schedule! Your fans are just DYING to know."

I'm reading back through this, squinting at my screen and thinking, "Really, Juj? Really." It really does seem adolescent. What the fuck, I don't even care. It's my mind, anyway. In a few days, I'll go back to my fuck-it-all attitude and enjoy my anonymous life where I can use baking soda and vinegar as a cleaning regimen because I'm poor and not because it's a new eco-friendly fad. Until then, I'm going to go look at red carpet looks and decided who wore what dress better.
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