I woke up yesterday to a brutal new world. A world I didn’t consent to. A world where Renee Zellwegger no longer looked like the person I’d come to imagine I know through a series of films she appeared in.
Now? She’s unrecognizable! Can you believe the audacity? To have made such life-altering decisions without consulting us, her fans? Who the fuck does she think she is? An autonomous person attempting to struggle against the inevitable chains of time dragging us all down?
Psht. Fuck off.
Celebrities Can Just Change How They Look Now?
Listen, honey. I know Bridge Jones. And you, madam, are no Bridget Jones. I fell in love with her, and that girl from Jerry Maguire, I guess. I can’t remember her name. It was all very charming, though.
Of course, you’re not allowed to get any older. Or fatter. Or too skinny, either. That shit is for regular people. If I wanted to watch some person get old, I’d spend more time looking up from my smart phone.
No. You must stay as I imagine you in my mind. And if that means plastic surgery, fine. That’s what we’re paying you for. Well, that and unfettered access to your most intimate moments.
But if for any fucking reason, your face looks different or weird, I am going to freak the fuck out. Not okay, lady.
Did She Consider How This Would Affect Me!?
I mean, did Renee ever stop and think, just once, about me? About how her face would change the way raisin bran tastes in the morning? Or the way the sun feels on my skin?
For fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to explain this to my kids? (Or, you know, other people’s kids, who actually exist.) Hm? What, that it’s just magic that Renee Zellweger’s face is different now? What next, there’s no Santa? Or God?
How the fuck am I supposed to make sense of this world, huh?!
It seems like celebrities just spend all their time thinking about themselves. Just going on and living their lives for their own pursuit of happiness and meaning. It’s a bunch of crap.
If She Didn’t Want Our Opinion, She Should’ve Sealed Herself in a Cave
Listen. I understand. Some people desire privacy. But you give up that right to privacy the moment you decide you enjoy theater or the process of acting. Especially if you’re talented.
I’m sorry, but there’s nothing in the Bill of Rights preventing me from taking pictures of your upper thighs while you’re trying to feed your kid breakfast in a private restaurant. If Ben Franklin didn’t want to see every ounce of your cellulite, I’m pretty sure he would’ve made a law.
If you want privacy, build a panic room and stay there forever. Otherwise, you need to accept that your life is my business. How else am I going to avoid contemplating the gaping void of meaning in a limitless universe except by mocking your sweatpants even though you’re just going for a run.
Sorry, Renee. But I once saw Bridge Jones on cable, which I’m pretty sure costs me money. Which goes to the movie studios. Who pay you. So basically, I’m your boss.
And you owe me. Big time.