2004-01-26 @ 2:30 p.m.
|I keep coming across this Diaryland term called stats whore...people, I guess, who constantly check to see how many people have anxiously or accidently clicked on their websites.
I do that. I admit it.
I'm not a whore about it though. I try to be scientific, but then when the number is low, which it usually is, I kick myself for not naming my diary something more interesting like Tits-on-Parade or DaveBarry.com.
And it's always a little disappointing the day after a banner runs. Its like...Wow, yesterday 178 people "loved" me and today...18. What's up with that? Did my feet stink or something?
I'm sure that's how Britney Spears felt the day before her recent Vegas wedding.
Gee, Goober (or whatever her future husband's name was), nobody has said my name on Entertainment Tonight in at least three minutes. And I've only sold a million and a half shit records since Tuesday. And I've already worn clothes that cling to my nipples....And I've already kissed that bitch Madonna.
So what else can I do? I really need to do something unexpected...like...like....
A small nagging voice from somewhere deep within says: "Like have talent, Brit?"
Britney: "NO! (momentarily furrowing her brow in deep, ok, somewhat deep concentration) I KNOW, I'll GET MARRIED! THAT'S IT!!"
So I was talking to my mom on the phone this morning. She always asks me if I saw certain shows on TV. She does this virtually everyday, even though she knows I don't have cable television, and I always have to say no. She's even offered to "get" me cable recently. I think so we can commiserate on all that is television. I actually think she wants to get me cable so we can watch "American Idol" together, and vote for the next Clay "Now everybody that called me a geek in high school can kiss my ass" Akin.
So this morning I got to hear the blow by blow recap of the Golden Globe Awards. And how all the women wore dresses with their boobs hanging out. My mom even divided it into subcatagories, namely the "boob adjustment category", in which she told me which movie stars openly tucked their boob back into their dresses while the cameras were rolling (Nicole Kidman and Sarah Jessica Parker). And how stupid Sarah Jessica was. (I like Sarah and tried to defend her). And how old Al Pacino looked. And how bad LOTR director Peter Jackson's hair looked. And how weird Bill Murray looked with white hair. And how beautiful Jennifer Lopez looked.
Oh don't get me started on J'Lo. Talk about a stats whore. Breaking up 4 days before the Golden Globe Awards? Coincidence? I think not. God, can no one else see the writing on the wall, with that one? Christ.
"Oh Ben...both of our careers are totally sucking at the moment. But next week is the Golden Globes. I could wear a really pretty, sexy dress with my ass pooching out. Think of the great press I'll get if we break up. It'll be Bennifer-what-really-happened-marathon and then the Globes! Perfect! We'll knock that fruitcake Michael Jackson right off the cover of the National Enquirer!"
So, I tried to explain this to my mother...about how press for movie stars work, and how timing events is so crucial for maximum impact.
I'm not really sure how I know all this shit, especially since I'm a poor person with a crappy car on Medicaid with less than $200 in the bank. I guess through osmosis or something. Or maybe because these media sluts are so transparent in their flagrant attempts to keep their "careers" going through media manipulation despite minimal talent.
Yeah, that's it.
So with that in mind, I still think I might change the name of my diary to Dave Barry.Com. Why? Because I think I may have something in common with those movie stars and their ravenous need for attention.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty