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Celebrity Rehab

So, I’ll move onto the next vehicle that celebrates my rock bottom: Celebrity Rehab. Hey, if I can get my body back in shape and raise awareness about whippet addiction then I’m happy. Or at least I think I’m happy? I haven’t popped an oxy since four minutes ago.

I’m paid to analyze the most trivial thoughts and irrelevant events in the lives of complete strangers, and even I don’t care about this. I’d rather watch a Celebrity Rehab marathon than spend another second dealing with the worthless drivel you post in your “updates.”

We watch it — “reality-TV” — continually. Perhaps because we like to think there are people out there like us, or not at all like us. Or maybe because, at our core, we like to watch the lives of others unfold in a way that is unpredictable, if not riveting, or else dull and mundane, or else scripted.

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