Obsessing on Star Culture

I am convinced that when my older brother took the great dive into the gene pool, he took every good, normal gene right along with him. By the time that I jumped into that very same pool only three years later, it was devoid of water and the genes that I got to pick from were nestled in the dead leaves that had collected along the bottom.

Growing up, I did my absolute best to hide these faulty genes. Physically, they did not turn me into a three eyed monster with wings and clubbed feet. Mentally, however, I got pummeled: Depression, Social Anxiety Disorder, and the granddaddy of them all – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

My mother claims that she knew I was a little off, but had no idea the seriousness of it all until my senior year when the three of them intermingled and I had my first full-blown anxiety attack.

Now I could go on and bore you with the details of doctors’ visits, diagnoses and medications or even tell you about the tumor which I recently found out resides in my pituitary gland…but those stories are just about as fun as actually hanging out in a doctor’s office.

You see, upon finally getting medicated and going through some counseling, I stumbled into another addiction: Entertainment. I began to thrive off of media, pop culture and pop-princesses-turned-train-wrecks.

What started out as reading an “Entertainment Weekly” here or there has blossomed into walls plastered with photographs and obsessive blog reading. My brain, while being faulty (but on the mend), now contains massive amounts of entertainment and celebrity trivia. Sadly, much of this newfound knowledge surrounds the busted up mess that has become Britney Spears.

For some reason, I am extremely protective of Ms. Spears. Say what you will about her: She’s crazy, burnt out, extremely annoying, psychotic, insane, an untalented twit, etc. I honestly don’t care. What does make me care is the fact that she seems to be just as, if not more flawed than me. The difference, however, is that she’s in the public eye having her breakdowns at Starbucks with a cigarette in hand. I luck out and get to have them alone in my very own bathroom with no paparazzi banging down my door.

The question I often get asked when people learn about my dark obsession is simply why. Why do I care that George Clooney and Fabio nearly came to blows at a charity dinner? Why am I so angry that Brad Pitt dumped Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie? Why do I insist upon having an entire wall of my bedroom plastered with photographs of Britney Spears?

And to be truthful, I can’t give you a straight up, point blank answer simply because I don’t know why I care so much.

I honestly feel that my devotion to these messes from afar roots itself in the fact that deep down, these ‘celebrities’ are just as human as I am. They wake up looking like a hot mess every morning. They shamefully watch shows like the “The Hills,” but won’t admit it to their closest friends. They dance around their bedrooms listening to terrible pop music as they sing into their hairbrushes (you know you’ve done it at least once).

So yes, when one of them screws up, the little sadist in me jumps up and down with glee. I may not have gotten the best genes from the pool, but from the looks of it, neither have the A-Listers…and in the end, that makes those leftover genes seem not so bad.

My Writing Aspirations

A misunderstood conversation with one of my best friend's yesterday prompted me to think of my future goals and aspirations in a completely new way.

She was driving me to her house in the truck she's been driving since she was 16. This past week I've been trying to get over a terrible cold and just needed to get out of my stuffy, sick infested apartment and into the springtime air. Along the way, our discussion was on writing for magazines and my writing in general.

Now I have a confession.

For the last three years, I have absolutely abhorred writing.

As a senior high school, I wrote a 200 plus, single spaced novel. This was quite an accomplishment for the girl who hid this hobby from her closest friends.

When I packed up half a year later and went to college, it was as if my creativity completely burnt out and ran away screaming. The massive amounts of papers drowned me in words that I had absolutely no interest in.

And the articles I had to write for the few journalistic writing classes I was required to take?

Talk about complete loathing.

Newspaper writing and that in strict AP Journalistic style is something I can't stand reading, let alone think of writing.

Until this semester.

Upon my return to the States, I was signed up for a required Interviewing and Reporting Skills class. The transition back to the states and the fact that I found myself sitting in a class I absolutely didn't want to take was enough for me to throw myself into a panic attack.

To make a long story short, I dropped the class and found out when I was scheduling for the spring that it was only available in the fall. Thanks to a great adviser and Department Head, I was able to substitute another writing course in its place...but this time it was in an area that I'm obsessed with: magazines. I was still a wreck walking into that class, knowing my fellow classmates had years of journalistic writing for the paper under their belts and I had a lousy few stories here and there.

But it didn't matter.

Because it turns out that writing for magazines isn't the uptight writing that one reads in a newspaper.

And I fell in love with the style.

Thus my love/hate relationship with writing turned towards love again, thanks in large part to the fact that my witty, sarcastic, black humor was welcomed in these new articles.

Back story over, fast forward to yesterday's conversation in my friend's truck.

"You should look into writing, you know," she told me. "I can see you being a funny, dark humored Communist."

Completely baffled, I looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"Well you just seem to really like writing these strange articles."

I cannot tell you how long I sat there thinking over her words. How did my writing make her think that I'd be a great Communist? Did she think I should write regime papers? Had my terrible sense of humor been mistaken for some strange Communist philosophy? What was it about me that just screamed 'RED PARTY! RED PARTY!' to everyone?

I listened as she talked a little longer before it clicked in my head. I'd horribly misunderstood the conversation. Either she hadn't enunciated enough for me or my ears were horribly plugged from being sick, but I clearly had misheard something important.

"Did you say Communist or columnist?" I asked, already knowing what she'd say.

"Columnist, you dumbass."

And shaking my head, all I could think was: Wouldn't this be a great blog entry explaining the reason why I began this blog to begin with?

Since I've grown steadily closer to graduation, the thought of what comes next has increasingly began to freak me out.

This class has only managed to fuel me to start a career in magazines...and the thought of writing as a job no longer scares me shitless.

How's that for a misunderstood conversation epiphany?

--J