When I stopped writing for Popdust a few weeks ago, I never thought I would lose interest in celebrities.

Having to write about them every day involved a total immersion in their real and made-up antics. I labored over the Daily Mail, looking for some news or photos I could spin into a post. I refused to just copy something that had already been posted somewhere else. Even though my writing and the website itself were garbage, I took a pathetic pride in being original.

I became an expert on Kim and Kanye.

My husband had to ask me several times when we were out walking to stop talking about Kanye. I found it hard not to share the contents of my knowledge base. I thought about Kylie and Khloe and Madonna and Gwyneth even when I was off the clock.  I started checking in on them several times a day, worried about missing something.

I followed Rumer Willis on Twitter, and tried to decode her tweets to her sister, whatshername.

Now, I am blissfully unaware of Rumer’s musings, and I don’t know where Kylie stands with Tyga.

Without any deliberate detox plan, I quit celebrities, just like that!

It feels like a miracle. No longer preoccupied with celebrities, I haven’t become more productive and I haven’t developed a new interest, but at least I don’t talk about Kanye. I think it’s a win.

On the other hand, I may have a lot more free-floating rage and hatred. But I will need it for our Insane Clown President. 

In fact, given Matt Taibbi‘s brilliant nickname for Donald Trump, it would be wonderfully fitting if Insane Clown Posse and a few thousand juggalos could perform at the inauguration! Please, universe, make this happen.

Where once I could rant about Taylor Swift with the passion of a crazed zealot, now I have no idea what she’s up to, and I wonder how I could once get so worked up about her.

Maybe it’s the emergence of actual villains that has drained my hatred for celebrities, or maybe familiarity really does breed contempt. Getting some distance from Kim Kardashian’s ass has helped me to refocus on my own ass,  such as it is.

If you fear that you are a hopeless celebrity addict, take it from me, you can live without them. Step 1 is to renounce the Daily Mail, and if I could do it, so can you. Then, move away from your computer and start thinking about your ass.

*photo by Juggalo4U

I just had an exclusive interview with myself and here’s what I learned:

Everything you read about Katie and Tom‘s divorce is coming directly to you out of someone’s ass! That’s right, and not long ago, it came from mine, too.

As a journalist for several glossy supermarket tabloids, I was able to deliver scoops about Tom and Katie’s personal lives nearly every week, simply by sitting quitely and channeling the two celebrities until I saw the exciting details in my mind’s eye.

I wrote exclusive scoops about Katie’s struggle for autonomy, Tom’s obsession with Brad Pitt, Suri’s nursery, and so much more. If you were a tabloid reader, you accepted these stoires as God’s truth because otherwise it wouldn’t be printed in a magazine! If you are a tabloid reader, or a consumer of celebrity gossip on any level, you are walking around thinking you know something about Brad and Angie, Jennifer Aniston, Madonna, or whoever, but you’re wrong. Nobody knows anything, but we keep making it up until it is common knowledge.

Whenever you see the words “According to a source,” replace them with “I am making this up.” Same with “An insider says,” “A close pal divulges,” and “A member of his/her inner circle reports.”

Of course, some of us journalists are better channelers than others. Once, when I channeled Janet Jackson, it made the crawl on CNN! Another time, I was able to divine what Katie gave Tom for Christmas: He had just completed work on that awful movie about the German war hero, so I thought she should get him “the complete leather-bound works of his favorite author, Goethe.”

Voila! Tom got the Goethe, to the delight of my friend Wendy and my Inner Circle. I had giddy fantasies of linking Jessica Simpson with Schopenhauer. I believe I, I mean Katie, also gave Tom a custom-made iPhone with his name engraved on it. Which is still nothing compared to the custom-made Chanel evening bag I once gave to Victoria Beckham, I mean David gave to her of course.

You can say I was a liar but you can’t fault my generosity.

“The denim company 7 For All Mankind is suing manufacturers who are knocking off their ass-embroidery branding….[they] filed a lawsuit against InDesign Apparel and Oleg Cassini for producing a line with back pockets that look exactly the same as their trademarked swoop and swirl.”

I didn’t even know how flattering this brand is until I asked my husband to take a photo of my ass.

I’m ready to testify for 7 jeans, should I be called upon to bring my ass as evidence.

~

p.s. Let us not forget there are idiots roaming the earth, and for them I suggest these limited edition Nudie Jeans for $699 at Tobi.com. Epic, right?