As a pop culture obsessed, going-on-30, legend-in-her-own-mind satirist, I can’t help but share my two-cents on the multitude of celebutantes’ recent falls from grace. Not having my former very public forum to voice my opinions is at once a blessing and curse — a blessing in the sense that I’m not adding to the media hype surrounding these starlets, even on a lame local scale, nor do I really have to defend myself, which really can deteriorate one’s already lacking self-esteem and confidence. But it’s a cruse in the sense that, like I mentioned before, I am obsessed. The first thing I do when I get home is run upstairs to my lap top, go straight to dlisted.com, and bask in the glow of Micheal K’s “oh-no, he didn’t!” catty quips about the stars in action. I feel like I have so much to say, but no one to say it to. And that, my friends, is why so many people blog.

A lot of people still ask me about my opinion on Britney Spears, and truthfully, I don’t know what to say. I’m not her BFF. I don’t really know what in God’s hell is going on with her, but of course I have my theories.

Back in 2003, Chuck Klosterman interviewed Spears for an issue of Esquire magazine, and unknowingly to him at the time, he foretold of the ultimate demise of the pop tart. To paraphrase, he wrote that when people asked him “What is Britney like?” he replied with, “I don’t know. And I don’t think she knows either.” This spot-on answer clearly lies at the root of Brit’s problems. Couple that with a severe chemical imbalance in the brain, and you’ve got enough headlines to exhaust Star Magazine, In-Touch and US Weekly combined.

And though I recognize this, it’s hard for me to feel much sympathy for Britney Spears. It’s hard for me to feel any sympathy for celebrities in general. They’ve hit the jackpot. They are, simply, some lucky mother fuckers. You wanna be a star? Well, guess what — if you become the one in a million to actually succeed at stardom, the word “privacy” will no longer exist in your vocabulary. That’s the deal and you should be crystal clear on that fact before you sign up. So fuck those whiny assholes. Seriously.

Do I want Britney to get better? Well, yes and no. “No”, because I love watching crazy people. It’s why I go to the park and watch hobos yell at squirrels. That shit is funny as hell. Don’t get me wrong — I certainly don’t want her to die. That would not only be incredibly cruel and sadistic on my part, but it would also put an end to my voyeuristic pleasure of watching her rattle off baby-talk in a British accent while twirling her waffle weave between her fingers and blowing through red lights on Melrose Ave.

And “yes”, because it would be interesting to see her gain some sort of clarity and be able to articulate what exactly was going on in her mind around this time on a very special 2 parter of “Oprah”.

I feel bad for her kids, but I don’t feel bad for her. The only reason I would feel bad for her is that her parents seem like a couple of grade A dicks, but she’s a grown-ass woman and should’ve dealt with them accordingly. She’s had every opportunity in the world to get her shit straight. I know, according to such psychology experts as Harvey Levin and the staff at “TMZ” she’s bi-polar, manic-depressive, blah, blah, blah, I got it. But even in the beginning stages, she must’ve had some clear moments where she realized something wasn’t right. So instead of using her vast fortune to seek help, she decides to buy a white Mercedes with sparkly rims to fill that empty, lost feeling. Maybe it’s the existentialist in me, but nobody is helpless, even the mentally plagued. If you’re not retarded, you have no excuse. And acting retarded doesn’t count. It’s just easier to choose to be a victim rather than take any responsibility. So in that sense, it’s safe to say that a lot of us are just like Britney, and maybe, when you consider the underlying self-loathing we all experience from time to time, it explains why we get such a kick out of watching her heavy fall from grace.

Man, I really gotta stop so much reading Sartre.