Archives for posts with tag: Reality television

“Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”
John Steinbeck

Russell Armstrong was the husband/adjunct of Taylor Armstrong…a “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” character in the Bravo reality television series of the same name.

As most of us read this past week, Russell Armstrong is dead. Hung by the neck, fully clothed, no suicide note at his best friend’s Beverly Hills home.

Did reality TV kill Russell Armstrong?

Discovered by his wife and young daughter. This ordinary looking, middle-aged man could not take it any more.

As the American dream of the middle class crumbles to dust ‘aspirational’ shows like “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” developed by producers like Bravo’s Andy Cohen become increasingly popular.

According to friends who knew them, Russell and Taylor Armstrong were living, “Way beyond their means.” He was having, “Trouble at the office.” He was under, “Increasing financial pressure.”

Russell was the sort of guy who, “Had multiple business deals going at all times.”

Meanwhile, Taylor Armstrong says, “It may look like I have it all, but I want more.

In many ways this couple are typical of many families in post recession, double dip America. Struggling to get by whilst keeping up appearances.

Yet, unlike other families, their problems were magnified on reality television.

On TV, stoicism is perceived as pretension. Fighting to survive looks to the snarky viewer, recalibrated by the producer as: pathetic and desperate.

Without the cameras, prying eyes and competitive resentment the Armstrong’s might have sorted out the messes that many Americans share. They might have had the luxury of a private chat with a financial advisor, a couples therapist.

The problem is: Shows like “The Real Housewives” are not about revealing the cracks in the facade or grown up solutions. This show is about ‘glamour’, confrontation and spurious TV paid for parties.

Away from the cameras these women talk about ‘production’, ‘air-time’ and ‘ratings’. They luxuriate in the language of prime time entertainment.

This is Andy Cohen’s dress up show. Divas, Cougars, Vixen. Andy’s fag hags that he abusively tells to ‘shut the fuck up’ when the drama he created drowns out his own ego-maniacal, shrill voice.

Some gay men love an older woman with botox to parade at parties. Like Capote before him Andy Cohen delights in exploiting families (with which he has no first hand experience) he can only guess at the financial woes that make such good TV, the divorces with which he speculates and profits.

Andy is a single, childless, gay man playing gay God in lives for which he has no care but to make money. He was laughing all the way to the bank…now he is maybe crying crocodile tears…all the way to the bank.

The last thing any reality TV show needs is a crushingly real suicide. There is nothing real about reality TV. Death, is seems, in reality TV land needs a one hour, unscripted, series premiere preamble for Taylor’s costars to explain their grief. I am sure that they will repair their relationship with the recently departed and defend their co-star as the abused victim, the tragic ingenue.

Last week Russell hung himself in the spare bedroom of his best friend one month after his wife filed for divorce.

Until CNN asked me to appear on HLN to discuss Russell’s death I knew nothing of Russell or Taylor, I had not seen one episode of any one of the “Housewives of…” franchise. My only link to the show was having met Andy Cohen on two private occasions.

The short, ebullient, producer of many avidly watched shows. Driven around NYC in his black, overly large limousine, surrounded by sycophantic boys. Lauded for his extraordinary ability to make mass market, trash television then audaciously crashing through the third wall to make himself a character worthy of his own show.

Whilst Andy Cohen plays ‘dress up’ with his housewives, bank balances are shattered, children see their dead fathers hanging from the rafters, divorces are finalized.

The relationship between Andy and his housewives needs greater scrutiny.

Since Russel’s death Andy has been uncharacteristically mute.

I wrote to him asking if he had anything to say about Russell’s death.

He asked for my ‘POV’. I replied:

I hoped you might want to say more about this incident.

There has been a great deal of discussion about just how responsible you and Bravo might be for this death.

Obviously Russell is ultimately responsible for his suicide but one might argue that he was brutalized by a wholly fictional narrative creative by yourselves.

Excluded from the show, losing his wife and child in a public way…a mere adjunct, his masculinity compromised…this could have pushed a fragile man to the edge of his being.

Whilst you are an ebullient survivor type of guy…riding your housewives wave…it rather cruelly occurs to me to ask whether your heart really does go out to the child of this dead man? Or…please excuse me…I wonder how you will benefit financially from this death?

I wondered whether you felt at all responsible for his suicide?

The pressure put on those women to perform for ‘air time’ can skew (ironically) their reality.

Russell ended up a ‘featured extra’ in his own life. The bad guy who may or may not have injured his wife but certainly not able to imagine a time where he would be able defend himself against the inevitably huge wave of negative press a network like yours can generate.

That was my POV.

Hope you are well Andy.

Andy replied:

“I don’t think you know me or this situation at all so it is quite bold of you to speculate as you do.”

We all, of course, live in a world of speculation.

Perhaps Russell saw himself as a failure who couldn’t even get Reality TV ‘right’. Shamed publicly for his bad choices, his bad temper, his un-American solutions. If Russell and Taylor thought that they would discover untold riches under the bushel of reality TV then they were wrong.

Reality TV takes any problem and blows it up. Producers, directors and performers are all interested in one thing: drama. Usually that drama is manageable: tardiness, a sly look, a bitter word…then the inevitable reconciliation. Tearful, hugs, eyeliner smeared over acid washed cheeks.

Did reality TV kill Russell Armstrong?

We must take it seriously. Our insatiable desire to see women like Taylor Armstrong shop for things she could no longer afford, a marriage that no longer served her purpose. Her leading man tarnished, her husband a mere co-star who had to be recast.

“You’re a good looking woman, you could do so much better.” One might speculate that there is a far more telegenic husband waiting in the wings to whisk Taylor away from the funeral and onto a tropical island where her only stab at grieving might be a black bikini.

Many people, escaping their own misery, live vicariously through the noxious drama of the vacuous, crude and tasteless lives of these desperate housewives that may very well have killed Russell Armstrong.

I, for one, regret his passing. There will be no reconciliation for Russell, no ‘to camera’ explanation.

Like Willy Loman, Russell Armstrong killed himself because he was proud and foolish and could not take it any more.

Nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide.

Finally, Russell and Taylor’s child will not have the luxury of private grief. There will be cameras trained on her young face eager for tears that will make someone, somewhere a great deal of money.

I have spent the past day or so in bed.  The dog is less sick, eating again.  We have to get his drain removed.  He is wearing the Elizabethan collar but hates it.

My left leg is getting better…my right ankle isn’t.  Robby stayed over last night.  Today he watered the garden, filled the hot tub, went to the supermarket and ran around the house as I finally caught up on all the various tasks that could be accomplished from my bed.

Jen and Jason were incredibly helpful.  Anna brought supper.

Surrounded, as usual, with love.  Occasionally it is hard to recognize just how lucky I am.

Robby and I have a wonderful relationship.  We talk and play and the more I know him…the more I trust him.  In fact, I might trust him more than any person I know right now.  He has been a perfect antidote to JB. I feel hopeful again because he brings me love.

Crippled and confined to the couch he was pottering about the house making everything look good.

We were talking about how private one needs to be in life.

He is a tentative soul.

He wondered why I write every personal detail here in this blog.  Make public what most people keep private.  Something that delighted Jake until (of course) he was part of it, part of the narrative…then it wasn’t quite so alluring.

Learn this lesson:  If you don’t like your private life being scrutinised…avoid public figures…you will lose your anonymity.

The reality guy who killed himself this week?  He had no idea just how pernicious reality TV really is.

We mused about what remains private and what should be public.  I am quite clear why I write everything here.

If, like me, you have lived an audacious, notorious life then for every eager friend there is a fool desperate to pull you down.

It is best to live without secrets.  Many years ago I was taught that we are as sick as our secrets.  What does that mean?   If you are cheating on your wife you will be defined by your deception.  If you are lying to your friends you will be hindered by self-doubt.

If I have made mistakes, told a lie, cheated a friend or been generally disreputable then I write it here.  My part in what ever unfolding drama is worth noting. We tend to focus on who to blame and rarely acknowledge our responsibility.

Keeping my side of the street clean.

That is why I have struggled so badly with you-know-who.   It has been incredibly difficult to own my part.  I don’t want to admit my short comings.

I make him responsible.  I blame him.  I say:  He lied to me.  He cheated.  He duped me.  He did drugs in front of me.  All of this is true…of course, but has to be balanced with:   I am responsible.  I lied to him.  I chose somebody inappropriate.  I allowed myself to be duped.  I had no boundaries.

When I point at him three fingers point back at me.

What is the answer?

I aim to be ashamed of nothing.  This leads, inevitably, to peace of mind.

You, dear reader, know everything!  There’s nothing I’ve not written about.  You know every insane thought, every defect, every leak and misery.

You know everything…so I fear nothing.  Not one of you has anything on me.

When you live a lie you are vulnerable.  I don’t want to be vulnerable.

Back to NYC next month to see JB in court but it’s fashion week and I’ve been invited to a slew of fashion week events.  Robby will be in town so we can do some fun shit.  I love that boy.  Jenny will be there too and wants to come to court with me.  Before we vanish to The Hamptons.

There is a great deal to do these coming autumn/winter months.

LA will be hosting Pacific Standard Time the culmination of a long-term Getty Research Institute initiative that focuses on postwar art in Los Angeles.

Through archival acquisitions, oral history interviews, public programming, exhibitions, and publications, the Research Institute is responding to the need to document the historical record of this vibrant period.

Between October 2011 and February 2012, a major exhibition at the J. Paul Getty Museum will present a survey of postwar painting and sculpture in Los Angeles.

It will be a great deal of fun.

In tandem with PST,  Art Platform—Los Angeles, the west coast cousin of The Armoury,  is collaborating with Pacific Standard Time to organize an extraordinary series of events and services to highlight this historic period and unprecedented weekend of art in Los Angeles.  Rather wonderfully I am part of their VIP Programme.

Tonight Eric is bringing supper.  The little dog will get better.  I am willing him to.  Help me think him right.

 

Damn..this is the last thing I needed.

Yesterday CNN fetched me over to their Sunset Blvd building to discuss the death of reality adjunct Russell Armstrong whose estranged wife Taylor is part of Andy Cohen‘s Housewives Of…circus/franchise.

Are you aware of how many reality TV stars commit suicide?

The problem with reality TV is that it’s never real, so when something real actually happens the reality TV community…reels.

I was on the show with Omarosa from the The Apprentice.   I really liked her.  She is so beautiful

Her take on Russell was more pragmatic than mine.   He should have gone for the cash.  I felt that Russell probably saw his wife’s involvement in the show as an opportunity for them both to do well.

Taylor threw her husband under a bus.   Claiming all sorts of headline grabbing reasons why her marriage wasn’t working…except the glaringly obvious problem…reality TV.   Essentially thrown out of the show poor Russell, swimming in debt and hideous accusation hung himself.  Fully clothed.

No more red carpet for Russell.

Reality is all at once intrusive and life affirming.  Getting the big bucks for being ones self.   As I have said many times before, I found the entire experience unexpectedly validating.

Would I kill myself naked?  I suspect I might.

Having been in two wildly different types of reality TV shows I felt very relaxed discussing my experience.  Of course, I mentioned the restraining order.  It was the perfect opportunity.

My segment here.

Had coffee at Groundworks with a friend.  The excessively large limo they sent  gliding back up the mountain.

Had dinner with Robby in Santa Monica.  We ate huge raw steaks.

When I got home I walked the little dog.  He was being tentative.  At the edge of my terrace, no more than ten feet from my front door, a huge coyote lunged at The Little Dog puncturing his back.  I lunged at the coyote screaming like a banchee but in my haste falling down a flight of stairs as I fought back.  As it ran into the night, I felt my ankle go.  I felt that huge muscle in my left leg tear.  In extraordinary amounts of pain I sat on the step and sobbed.

Then something weird happened.  I started to shake violently.  Teeth chattering, body convulsing I crawled back up to the house.  I tore off my clothes and dragged myself into bed.  I called Robby who came back almost immediately and very kindly iced my foot and leg.  That boy is a fucking dream.

Finally my body calmed down.  The dog was/is petrified and it will take a few weeks for him to recover.  Damn it, it will take me a few weeks to recover.

I thought about Michael Landon in The Little House on the Prairie.  He always carried a gun.  I always wondered why…now I know.

Slept badly, my swollen legs sweating.  Unable to go to the bathroom I pissed in a cup.  A portent.  Prematurely infirmed.

Jason is heading over this way.  I am staying with the Piette’s until I get well.

What was I saying about naked suicide?

My calves ache.  Why?

As an experiment I took the bus from Malibu to Hollywood.

It was much easier than one imagined.  I walked off the mountain, leaving the dog in the house.  I walked the long way down the steep Las Flores Canyon in the blazing midday sun causing blisters and bruising on both feet.

At the bottom of the hill there’s a very convenient bus stop.

On the way there the bus was crammed with migrant workers and mental patients.  By the way, even mental patients have smart phones that they check compulsively every ten seconds.

What could they be possibly checking?

I liked the ride along the PCH…looking out to sea, watching cormorants bombing the waves and dolphins making their way west.  Everything looked very pretty and southofranceafied.

On the way back, the bus was full of homeless people keeping out of the unusually evening cold.  Bad move.  The air conditioning made it colder inside than outside the bus.

On both trips I met a few disgruntled European tourists who were shocked by the patchy public transportation: how long everything took and general lack of information, schedules etc.

Had I not used my iPhone travel app I’m sure I would have gotten very lost.  Maybe that’s what the the mental patients were checking…their route.

Surprisingly I still have a huge amount of shame around taking the bus in LA.  Nowhere else do I feel it.  Anywhere else it’s just the way things are.

Getting back to Malibu later that evening was miserable so I aborted the mission and caught a cab from Sunset and PCH waiting in a smelly fish restaurant called Gladstone’s until a jolly Georgian cabby picked me up.  $30.

On the way home two large dogs dashed across the PCH.  They were not killed but I don’t know how they survived.  They survived the mad dash.  Thank God.  The cabby started shouting incoherently at the owner in Russian and English.

“Fuck you!”  He screamed.  “Fucker!”

As he dropped me off he said, “You can never depend on a man but a dog will never let you down.”

I spent yesterday morning in the garden, planning to hang this huge bronze lantern I found on the street.  I need a sturdy chain and a butchers hook.

Capitalizing on my confidence surge I arranged to see my Important Producer Friend.  It worked out really well.  Before I leave LA/USA for good I have to achieve more than a couple of reality TV shows and a revenge novel…oh, and a beautiful garden.

Perhaps I’m being a little hard on myself.

Anyway, after a few moments of timidity I burst into the pitch with passion and verve.  He wants to help.  He is able to help.  Real power in an illusory town.  I felt safe.

Whilst I was with him it was easy to identify what has been missing these last two years.

Let’s look at the facts: I can write an interesting script, develop a great idea, direct a compelling movie.  Sell it, promote it, open film festivals worldwide.  I can really do that.  I’ve done that with all but one of my films.

Because I’ve had the wind punched out of me I just couldn’t find the huge strength required to force the film off of the page and into the world.  Perhaps I can?  Now I have the energy and focus.

Walking down the mountain to the PCH rather than staying at home and weeding the garden…well, that’s the advice I would have given a good friend.  Get off your ass and do the deal.

The miserable veil, today…for the past few days has lifted.  Let’s see if it will last.

Watching that evocative twenty year old video enthused and invigorated me.  I remembered just how much I have to be proud of.  At the time I was making theatre, living an idyllic, simple life in Whitstable.  Just returned from six months in Sydney, about to go to Film School, hanging with cool people, making love to beautiful men and mostly very happy.

My early thirties were great fun.

I think that’s obvious from those images.

I wondered what it would take to get back to that place.  That happy place?  Well, I have to think seriously about this blog.  Because of you know who I kept this thing alive and by doing so I kept my connection with him alive.  Like a daily letter to him.

It’s hard to imagine not writing this blog.  It’s hard to let go.

The personal details that I pump daily into the world must stop.  I have to get serious.  This blog has become a destructive addiction, just like everything else I do compulsively.

Thanks Donald.  You have been revealed.

Not only are you despicable for decrying gay marriage but now you have forced a black man in the highest office in the land to show his birth certificate like an undocumented worker.  What now?

Now you have the evidence that Obama with his weird name is really American you have decided to challenge the authenticity of his education.

Working in tandem with Fox News, in the back pocket of Rupert Murdoch…you are as credible as anyone can possibly be who works on a fake reality TV show.

A bi-product of your unrestrained Obama hatred?  The US press is finally talking about the vile racism that motivates you as well as these terrible Tea Party Republicans, these ghastly birther people.  They are finally acknowledging what I have been writing for months:  that these hateful people simply cannot come to terms with the fact that Obama is a black man in the White House.

Why has it taken them so long to articulate this?

Why?

Donald Trump.  What a terrible man.

His crude attacks on Obama may very well have finally focused the minds of this dumbed down, frenzied American media.  Even the so-called intelligent press jumped on the Birther conspiracy band wagon.  Now, like guilty children they stand back from the story embarrassed that they had anything to do with it in the first place.

Let us not forget that rotting at the very heart of this ‘news’ story are the mutilated bodies of countless black men, women and children whose enslavement, torture and death white supremacists like Trump, Limbaugh et al still gloat over.

Hung drawn and quartered, their bodies swing in trees for all to see.  This is exactly what is happening now.  An intellectual lynching.  I say again, these white, resentful fools are determined to undermine this President, not because he is a bad President but because he is black.

Fuck you Donald Trump.  Fuck you.

Robby and I walked on the beach yesterday.  The Little Dog was bitten (not badly) by a three-legged terrier.  He was terrified and screamed like a baby.  He is a bit traumatized today.  Keeping close to me.  The wound is healing.

I cooked a huge pasta dish for dinner and we sat on the terrace in the warm night air talking about the origins of Christianity.  The origins of the myth of Jesus and the pagan stories that fed into that myth.  After a while Robby went quietly to his room.  I asked if he was ok.

He said, “It’s like finding out that Father Christmas is a lie.”

He was really perplexed, his faith in the literal teaching of the Bible has been shaken.

This morning Juan came for breakfast to discuss his food truck idea.  We drank coffee and looked over the ocean.  The sea is calm.  Elsewhere tornadoes are raging through communities in Alabama.

I am thinking about the idea of mid-life crisis.  Will expand on this when I know what I want to say.

Fuck you Donald Trump.

Eric and the Little Dog

When I gave up taking cocaine and drinking I remember that friends would call at 3 in the morning on my house phone. I’d say, “Why the hell are you calling so late?” They’d mumble back that they were ‘drunk’. At 9 the following morning I would return their call. They’d say, “What the hell you calling so early?” I’d reply, “I’m sober.”

These people were my ‘lower companions’ and my house was always full of them. They were a tough crowd to convince that I was going to stay sober. Slowly but surely they all vanished, off to different parties or on some occasions dying alone in their rooms, needles in their arms. Lower companions are neither your social or intellectual or financial equals. They are people you only indulge within the context of your addiction.

The halcyon days of early sobriety. Clean sheets and brushed teeth. I got sober October 1st 1996. How I loved that first autumn and winter of my sobriety in London. Flying around town in that cute little green Porsche those other men said I drove like a handbag, living in that glorious house in Kensington and wearing wonderful clothes. Within two years that would all be gone. Those were the tough lessons of early sobriety.

Lesson one: Whatever I have right now is ENOUGH and enough is all I need.

My last but one blog before I pack up my twitter bag and change my blog direction.

Sex Rehab finale airs on Sunday and not a day too soon. Oh you ungrateful gay! How can you be so ungrateful? Nobody knew who you were before Sex Rehab! Now people know who you are. The stinking wind of semi-fame, fame for no good reason, fame for fame’s sake blows over me at night and wakes me gasping for air. Duncan the obscure. Could you have sunk much lower than reality TV!

Oh yes I could. I have. Much lower-but on who’s scale? People seem to think that those of my ‘co-stars’ who made pornography are pretty low on the unfathomable scale. Nah, they are just performers, wandering minstrels who offer vagina rather than lute. Their acting skills have kept me calm when the demons are upon me.

According to some, when one agrees to appear in reality TV, one surrenders any claim one might have had to integrity or dignity. Is that true? Even an obvious aesthete like me? I am a fucking dilatant! I am on life’s grand tour sampling what culture a country has to offer and this is America’s cultural phenomenon. Reality TV! How could I NOT have been a part of it? I commissioned a great portrait of myself by the artist VH1.

Back to today’s theme: Lower Companions.

I tried yesterday and the day before to reach out to Jennie but she ignored my calls and emails. I wanted to avoid the scorched earth policy I usually enact in these situations. I did not/do not want to lose my temper; I did not want to disguise my pain with anger. I did not want to hurt myself. So, I wrote a blog.

Joe

Yesterday’s blog caused my usual commentators some consternation. ‘I will never read another word you ever write!’ One woman scrawled. ‘Poor Jennie! Poor Eric.’ They bawled. Let me tell you something blog readers/commentators. I enjoyed deleting those pathetic comments.

That’s how far I sank. Hankering to be let into the Jenny and Eric club? Are you fucking kidding? Their shrill laughter and bad skin. Over lit kitchens and badly cooked food. That’s how far I sank. Swimming in the sewer with Jenny and Eric. Come on pornsters-bring it on!

I turned and said to Anthony Rendlesham, “Get behind me, Henry Higgins! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.”

So that was the state of my scrambled mind yesterday. That and dog issues to deal with and lawyers late at night and the reckoning-which is Polish for cheque please!

Can you remember a time when all your closest friend began to die all at once?

I had breakfast with John and whilst we were eating Benoit emailed me and I was flush with pride. Then, in the afternoon, after a long walk on Runyon with Isaiah who wore tight brown boots and a pompadour Joe stopped by. Beautiful, sweet adorable, bright-eyed Joe.

Joe asks me the most exacting questions. He was asking me what I was like when I was his age. I told him that by the age of 24 I had become a nihilist. That in 1984 we were four years into an AIDS epidemic that would go on to kill millions and millions of people but at that time just seemed to be killing my friends.

Nihilism is sometimes used to explain the general mood of despair at the perceived pointlessness of existence that one may develop upon realizing there are no necessary norms, rules, or laws.

I realized what had happened when I first met Joe and his gang of friendly friends. The revulsion I felt. These beautiful young men gathered around me talking and having fun and I felt nauseous. I called my therapist Jill and she said, “How old did you feel?” And I said, “Not like I was a child..more like in my early twenties.” And I saw that I had never ever talked about being left behind by my tribe who had all died and I had not. That there were so many funerals and tearful farewells with boys just like Joe. With friends who one felt abandoned by-even though they had died and I had not!

HIV

One day you faint when the gardener cuts his finger the next you’re wrapping the dead, emaciated body of a young man in a turning cloth because nobody else will do it.

Do you remember Danny and Evan? Do you remember how much they loved each other? How they couldn’t bear to be apart? How kind Evan was and how beautiful it was to hear Danny tell Even how much he loved him. Evan looked just like Joe and was just as full of hope. They both lay screaming in separate hospital beds surrounded by nurses dressed in body suits. Danny was screaming because he didn’t want to die. He was too young. ‘I’m too young.’

I asked Joe to imagine a world where he watched all his young friends die of AIDS. Every beautiful man he knew and loved dying in the most harrowing, ugly way. Regardless of income. Plagued by shame.

I don’t want to hear ONE criticism of me or my life. I lived through a fucking plague that killed all my friends and I survived! I survived. Survive to be excluded by people like Jenny and Eric? Fuck that.

And I never talk about it because I can’t. It’s not my tragedy-it’s ours.

Black people write to me and tell me that I will never know what it is like to be black. We all hold onto to our own experience and in moments of peril hold it out in front of us like a shield. And I whisper to myself that the blows may stop falling if I say: I am a black man, a gay man, a woman, an abused child, that I saw my friends, a generation of fine young men die of the most disgusting disease.

Before I signed my contract to appear on Sex Rehab I told my friends that what ever happened to me during the editing of the show I would stay out of the result.  That I would let God deal with the details and I would not let any of it be my business.  That was until..

OMG!  Today, moments ago, I discovered..and I just had to write a blog about my extraordinary discovery..a reader alerted me to a website devoted to people who give a shit about TV!  So much of a shit, in fact, that the same sad people spend hours not just watching reality TV but getting so involved that they form ‘opinions’ then spend hours sharing LMAO with complete strangers their ‘opinions’.  The fact that these opinions are misguided, uninformed and mostly sophomoric is neither here nor there.

This reality TV viewer web site is like..REALITY TV PORNOGRAPHY!  It got me hard.  Really.

Amongst some occasional intelligent analysis I read about ‘haters’ (apparently I am one) and a huge amount of second rate Kari Ann/Jill/Selma/Kendra ‘diagnosis’ from a bunch of avid reality TV addicts.  I really had no idea that people took this stuff so damned seriously.  I am DESPERATE to throw my hat into the ring and take on these virtual dumpster divers!  IMO I think I could have quite a scrap.

I learned so much!   Punctuated with LMAO, LOL, OMG and IMO I learned that I was snarky, immature, ugly, a misanthrope-but probably because I was sexually abused.  I learned that I hated James and did not teach him to knit.  That I bullied James and ‘hated’ on him.  I had my words maligned, insulted, ‘hated’ on.  I am, apparently, a disgrace to gay people.  I learned that there were people trawling my facebook page-so all the people I don’t know have now been removed.  I learned that homophobia is alive and KICKING!

For people who seem to hate the haters there sure is a great deal of hate!

LMAO!  Oh you people!  How you have amused me during the past few weeks.

“I’m 24 and I’ve heard that my generation and people that are teens right now are some of the most narcissistic people ever. But I think it’s just because with more technology and things, the people who might have been overprotective or felt stifled as children who want to raise their kids the opposite way might be able to spoil their kids more. There have always been people like that, it’s just more noticeable now..”

LOL.  And with scintillating insights like that who needs 19th century literature?

One particularly astute commentator opined that the British were apt to be socially insensitive.  Rude.  Well, we’re not rude..we are direct.  We say what we mean and we are not, as a nation, or as individuals so sensitive to the naked truth as you the Americans.  I spent hours in my dorm at school being viciously rude to my class mates and they to me.  It made us howl with laughter.    We LOVE a good insult/irony.

Consequently, we will punish Tony Blair for war crimes and tax our bankers for profiteering.  What, you may be thinking, does that have to do with price of cheese?  Work it out amongst yourselves. I am sure ONE of you will have an ‘opinion’.

OMG after reading the posts-and I could not stop they were so addictive-I thought to myself, well producers-you did a great job!  An amazing job of creating the goodies and the baddies and I am one of the baddies!  To many, many viewers I am just a vicious queen!  And so be it. What you think of me is none of my business.  It’s true!

“Between his blog, his twitter page, his facebook page, and God only knows what other type of self promotion he’s doing he has got to be the most vain S.O.B. out there! UGH! His whiny, childish behavior is disgusting.  Honestly, grow up honey. And yea I will admit when the show first began I found Duncan very charming, funny, etc. and so I did read his blogs, twitter page, etc. but its like the more he talks the more I dislike him.”

LMAO every time I read a vile comment like that my cock got harder.  LITERALLY.  I look at my own reaction to the hate and I realize that I still have a very long way to go.

And lastly..for you clever, clever people-a little context:  When making Sex Rehab there were 350 hours of real time footage shot on 20 cameras.  That’s approx 7,000 hours of footage squeezed into a chilling 344 minutes of TV.

LOL.

And finally my most favorite line:

“Duncan has a meanstreak that he gets away with because his sex appeal is soooo appealing. The reason men face-fuck him and leave him is because a meanstreak is only tolerable for as long as it takes to orgasm.”

A woman could only have written IMO the idea that I would want a relationship with anyone I had blown is frankly absurd.

LMAO

IMO

LOL

OMG

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