Don’t know about you, but I am signally not interested in what Gwen Stephani and Blake Shelton are up to.
Ditto the Kardashians, any of them.
Doja Cat can stay in her litter box, for all I care. Ariana Grande says she needs to be carried everywhere so that her delicate feet don’t touch the ground. You know what? I am not even remotely interested.
Somehow, our culture wants to create artificial people with supposedly interesting lives so that I will be distracted with their shenanigans. But I’m not. Never have been. Never will be.
For Heaven’s sake, I’m struggling enough with my own demons to care about Diddy’s evil deeds. I’m not ever sure what those evil deeds were and I care even less.
Yet every time I hook onto my computer to get on the net, I am assaulted by a plethora of stories about the wacky comings and goings of people I will never meet. People I don’t care about. People who don’t care about me.
Really, guys, can’t we just leave these folks to live their damaged lives so we can go on with our own damaged lives?
I mean, if I told you Mark Bruce was struggling with a teddy bear gummies addiction, would it ruin your day? If I told you about my propensity for scantily clad Facebook girls dancing on my feed, would you prepare an intervention? If you knew that I spent my nights binging on “Wednesday” episodes, would your morning coffee taste any more bitter?
No. You don’t care what happens in my life. That’s my business. And it always will be.
Why are celebrities any different? Let’s let them suffer in silence. Quit hitting me in the face with their drug habits, their infidelities, their propensity to get into compromising positions.
I don’t care.
If you really loved me, media, you’d bring me more chocolate.
Mark Bruce, Writer 