Buying a tabloid in Los Angeles is sort of like buying porn in Ohio. You know it happens, you’ve heard about it happening, but no one admits to doing it. And if they do admit to doing it, they are filled with shame and guilt.
That was me on Thursday (the tabloid, not the porn), and now I feel like I need some sort of public confession.
Hi. My name is Kate, and I bought… sigh… the National Enquirer. But it was only once—I swear.
I really do feel guilty. I hate these tabloids. I hate that paparazzi make life really complicated here. I hate the fact that these tabloids can say anything they want to say and that truth is rarely printed. I hate the fact that occasionally they get things right because then it lends credence to every other piece of garbage that they write. I hate the fact that someone standing next to me at the time could have been in that tabloid. I hate that I couldn’t stop myself from buying it.
Why did I buy it? Oh, I’m sure if you ponder my predilections and recent celebrity news you’ll be able to figure that out.
How did I buy it? Badly. The tabloids here are actually kept right next to the porn. I think I might have felt more comfortable buying something like “Naughty Sex Slaves and the Women Who Spank Them” than the trash I did buy. In fact, for a moment, I tried to pretend that I was actually checking out the porn instead. But then I quickly grabbed the tabloid and folded it just in case someone might see me do it. Then I also grabbed the fall preview special of the TV Guide to cover it. I had my cash in hand, and I kept looking around me when I went up to the cashier.
All I can say in my defense is, it just happened. It wasn’t planned—because if I had thought about it ahead of time, I would have worn dark sunglasses and a trench coat.
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