Sorry, folks, I just haven’t got much to say about anything these days — kind of in emotional hangover period after what was a pretty wild ride for three weeks, and I’m taking a little ‘who am I’ self-discovery time, during which writing’s just not working. I’m good, I just don’t feel like appeasing an audience. I’d rather have a bath, frankly. Heh. (Actually, I’m trying to be honest with myself, and I’m finding that’s not happening on the page. Pity for you. Humdinger for me.)
But, that’s okay. These phases come and go like you wouldn’t believe. Right around the corner is the start of yet another love affair between you and I. This is not that day, that’s all.
I do have one thing to say, though: I don’t normally buy into all the bullshit celebrity gossip crap that goes around, as I hate the cult of celebrity, but on the subject of my hometown girl Pamela Anderson’s split with Kid Rock, I just have to chime in. The media’s speculating, for some fucked-up bizarre reason, that the Borat movie’s “love obsession” with Pamela Anderson is a reason behind the split. (I keep meaning to see Borat but life intrudes. Curse you, life!)
Anyone who’s ever dealt with adversity in a relationship probably agrees with me that it’s the goddamned MISCARRIAGE she had in the recent weeks that is likely the cause of the split. Hello? Common sense knocking. Anyone home? Fuckin’ press is about as dumb-ass as it gets some days. If I were to retake my journalism degree, I’m certain one of the qualifying classes would now be “How to Keep Your Pride Amidst The Stupid Fucking Questions You’re Asking”, though they might truncate that a tad. Editing for brevity has always been my curse!
God knows that if I had to be accountable for my relationship in the PRESS during times of duress, I probably wouldn’t make it through it either. Something like a miscarriage… well, all you need is a little fingerpointing at each other for causal reasons, and you might as well buy your relationship a pine box, ‘cos it’s as good as six feet under by that stage.
I don’t care how good your foundation is, a sinkhole of good size is always gonna be able to take you out. The question is, how much have you got to lose if you walk away? In celebrity relationships? None. So, they walk. Big fucking surprise. Here in reality land, where we actually pay for mortgages and have to care for kids and deal with that pesky thing called real-life-on-a-budget and inconvenient job things and taxes and all, marriages drag on for years (darn it all) because of silly things like consequences that need actual heeding. And then there’s that not-being-famous pain in the ass that means when we become single, we’ll probably stay that way for awhile, which can be a chore for some. Go figger.
In other Steff news, with much of my region under one of the worst arctic blasts we’ve seen in years, I’m staying the fuck indoors until things get normalized! If I was IN a relationship, I’d be staying the hell inside, under the covers, with him, until it all subsided, too. Sadly. I’m not. Thus, I’m making my own fun. Ahem. Without ado, I bid adieu.