Celeb-brattys

All celebrities must kind of be assholes brats. I mean, unless you’re the bestfuckingpersonever, I don’t see how all the endless adoration doesn’t go to you head. (It wouldn’t go to mine, of course, since I’m so great, but I digress.) People dedicate hours to making fan pages for you, they cry if they meet you, they spend $10 to hang a poster of you over their bed. You are larger-than-life to the average person, and if that’s not enough to make you a raging narcissist, all your people–agents, friends, directors, show hosts, journalists–fall all over you to give in to your every need.

But probably the most brat-inducing thing about being a celebrity is that people. Fucking. Love. You. I don’t mean all the stuff written above–that they love seeing you, and your work, and blah blah blah. In addition to that, they love YOU. The human. They want to know every little thing about you–your favorite color, how much you weigh, what your childhood was like, what you eat for a midnight snack, what movies are your favorites. They love you so God damn much they want to crawl inside your skin and be you. And that’s a lot of power for someone like, say, Lindsay Lohan.

It’s also the thing that I think (besides the free clothes) would be the best about being a celebrity. You get to talk about yourself all the time and answer stupid questions–that’s fun! Why the hell else would everyone take an hour back in 2003 to fill out those 300-question surveys on MySpace? WE LOVE OURSELVES. So, that shit would be cray.

And so I’m gonna do it! You should too, my regular-ass readers, because let’s face it–we’re all pretty and talented and interesting enough to be famous, we just don’t have famous parents or a coke habit (I hope). So feel free to fill out the Celebratty Full-of-Yourself Questionnaire in the comments–I promise, it’s almost as fun as having the paparazzi stalk your every move.

  1. Place of birth. I’ll never tell. What?! I’m not the famous one here.
  2. Number of tattoos, and meanings. One–freedom, beauty, and love.
  3. Favorite food. Spicy tuna roll.
  4. Pets? One kitten.
  5. Worst thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  6. Best thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  7. Favorite designer. Bags, Balenciaga. Shoes, Louboutin. Dresses, Oscar de la Renta.
  8. Favorite childhood memory. The lake.
  9. Inspirational quote. “C’est la vie.”

This is dumb, now that I wrote it. I’m going to post it anyway. C’est la vie!

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A Work of Living

Jobs are a bleak dreary horrible thing. If you are some kind of freak who likes their job, then you can just go sit in the corner with some construction paper and scissors and cut yourself some confetti. Otherwise, you are probably a normal person who wants to die for 8 hours a day.

Cats make the wanting-to-die thing a little better.

Do you know that movie The Island, where everyone lives on a secret hippie commune island and they all pitch in for food and shelter and get to live in a beautiful paradise together? That is what life should be. Instead, people work all day to survive, but they are wasting their lives at work. It’s a paradox, or a circle, or something smart-sounding: you work to make money –> you make money to enjoy life –> you can’t enjoy life because you’re working.

But what if you could have any job ever? What would you be? I never really gave this any thought because the obvious answer is “independently wealthy.” I am not at all ashamed to admit that I would gladly sit around and shop and drink tea and travel to exotic places and do nothing of value to society if I had the G’s. But if I had to have a dream job not titled “rich bitch,” I’ve figured out what I would be.

  1. A stylist. You get to shop for a living. And hang out with celebrities. And if you hated them and they were obnoxious and self-absorbed, you could put them in something hideous and call it “cutting edge.”
  2. A magazine editor. You get to put together a book full of shopping ideas. Plus, you get to make Anne Hathaway do your bidding, and I don’t care for her so I would make her do stupid things like fetch me lattes whilst on a unicycle.
  3. A museum curator. You get to shop for art for a living. And, you can help up-and-coming artists become the next Andy Warhol but less creepy and rude.
  4. An artist. I can’t think of a quip for this one because I would absolutely love making art for a living.
  5. A blogger, which if you get paid for it, is just like being independently wealthy while taking lots of pictures. (Hey there WordPress, wanna pay me?)

Rich and famous people always say you should “be what you love” and all that shit, and I am for chasing your dreams like a My Pretty Pony prancing through a field of daises, but in my opinion that only applies if you love garbage removal or difficult math. “I love to shop” doesn’t exactly translate into a stellar job.

So, the best I can hope for is the zombie apocalypse (totally not influenced by The Walking Dead playing in the background right now) so that I can steal all the clothes I want from abandoned malls and then go live in some former stylist’s mansion.