She looks at Hollywood-stars with their Malibu homes, their five cars, their everything. She watches back-to-back the inside-editions of their TMZ-lives, the gossip-filled-stories about their secret-affairs, their human-errors, their mindless-dreams. She looks at their thick lips, bloated lips, fakeassphony-lips. She looks at their artificial-curves with their artificial dreams.
She is plugged into who slept with who and who cheated on who and who left who and who did who dirty and who is who while trying to be who else they can be… She meditates on their everyday-acts as if they were the stations of the cross. She loses hours sitting at their feet, listening to their wordless-words-of-idiot-wisdom.
She does not question why the reality-star seems empty of empathy, devoid of soul. She does not question why the rapper objectifies women and values the dollar. She does not question why women are calling other women bitches. She does not question why the only black men she sees are thugs and criminals and hustlers. She does not question why money is valued over love and asses over minds. She does not question why educated sisters and brothers, WOKE brothers and sisters, don’t have reality shows. She does not question why the camera only finds black women with weaves, light as honey, who jump across tables, slapping and screaming, hooping and hollering.
She does not question why it’s called reality when it has nothing to do with her own. She does question why at all.
Instead. She calls it her guilty pleasure. Spying on the sadness of other people’s lives. Being a voyeur in the world of imperfect-others. While choosing to be blind to her own.
And so when people ask her what she thinks about the world around her, it takes her a minute to understand. The world around me, she asks.
And so it is no surprise when she replies…..
Let me get back to you after I watch TMZ.