A friend of mine recently turned me on to an Instagram account that posts the dishiest celebrity gossip. She recommended it with a warning: "It will fully take over your nightly reading." She was right. The first night I had access to the account, I stayed up until 3 a.m. reading outrageous blind item after outrageous blind item. I couldn't stop. And when I discovered the DMs posted from users rehashing supposedly real celebrity encounters, I felt another rush of dopamine. It was the happiest and most alive I'd felt since the world fell to pieces in the face of the coronavirus pandemic.
Judge me if you want, but I love trashy celebrity gossip. Yes, I'm using the word love here. When the world is normal, I treat it like tequila shots, cotton candy, or listening to Nickelback—fun to indulge in every now and then, but too much will make you sick. Celebrities may have the most privilege human beings can get, but they're still humans after all—reading about their sordid affairs, debaucherous nights, or allegedly wretched behavior does feel invasive after a while.
But the world isn't normal right now. We've been self-isolating and social distancing for weeks, and people are trying to find joy wherever they can. For some, it's baking loaves and loaves of banana bread. (I burn simple toast.) For others, it's doing puzzles. (I would just cheat and force the pieces to fit.) And then, of course, there's old faithful, a.k.a Netflix. (Sadly, I've seen everything, even an episode of that Ashton Kutcher ranch show. Mind you, I'm gay.) So for me, a daily diet of celebrity trash has been my lifeline to happiness. It really is a love affair—a summer fling, if you will. I check in with my celebrity trash like I would a new boyfriend, giving him lots of time and attention. My love life with other humans may be at a complete standstill, but I'm fully in a relationship with other people's relationship gossip. And I'm head over heels.
To be clear, this is gossip I know is fake and from sources that have as much credibility as the Fyre Festival. I'd say my trash consumption at the moment is—hmmm, well, a lot. It's certainly more than the time I spend reading actual books or articles. Red, White, & Royal Blue is collecting dust on my nightstand because I'm glued to Twitter, inhaling deranged threads about stars ignoring their fans at restaurants, or hilariously long Instagram Stories about TV actors partying with their neighbors. It's as much a part of my daily routine these days as brushing my teeth or wearing a mask.
Here's the thing: I don't feel an ounce of guilt over it. Much like this writer from Los Angeles is embracing her need for ice cream and cheese, I've wholeheartedly accepted that reading blind items is essential to my pandemic survival. Food is providing her comfort the way celeb trash gives me an escape—more of an escape than I've experienced watching even the most addicting new shows. (Outer Banks kept my attention, sure, but at the back of mind I was still thinking, "Coronavirus, coronavirus, coronavirus.")
With celebrity gossip, it's a different story. It's like combining the best parts of Gossip Girl, The O.C., and Scandal, while keeping in mind there's a small possibility what you're reading actually happened. I think that last part is why I find it so intriguing and necessary at this time. Sure, I can imagine what it's like to make out with John B. from Outer Banks, but at the end of the day, he's a character. That's a script. It's a role. But when I'm knee-deep in a blind item, I'm transported to a nasty, thrilling universe that could have been reality. Even just a fragment of it. Maybe 90 percent of the story is total bullshit, but 10 percent might be true. For me, it's so much easier to dream about that—and, ultimately, escape, which is what we're all desperate for in 2020.
Also, let's be real: Celebrity gossip is fun. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't talked endlessly with coworkers about a rumor or broken down an A-list breakup at happy hour (remember those?). Celebrities rarely sue tabloids anymore because the general consensus is they're bogus—heightened soap operas that you should trust as far as you can throw. But there's a reason soap operas are the cockroaches of TV: They endure because they're fascinating. As is tabloid fodder. I'm certainly not telling you to take what you read as fact. Take it as fantasy; a fantasy that, yes, may be (but probably isn't) grounded in some reality. It's harmless delusion.
And it's a delusion I'll be entertaining for the foreseeable future. If I can't go out dancing or to the movies or do other activities that typically make me happy, I'm filling my brain with preposterous (but plausible) stories about the rich and famous. You can keep your vinegar and baking soda baths, thank you very much. Just let me have my blinds.