Earlier this week, Sandra Bullock left her house for the first time (really?) since the public implosion of her marriage to drive to her money manager’s house (haha, sure, to drive to her money manager’s house). The paparazzi were waiting for her outside. This is what it looked like:
Holy shit. I know that the methods of the Paparazzi are no secret, and I recognize that the public relations line is blurry to the extent that celebrities often tip the Paparazzi off themselves in order to stay on top of their own story, and I understand that extremely famous people make a conscious decision to enter into this realm where the private is public and your life is a product for consumption, but again, HOLY SHIT. The worst part is that this is our fault. We demand this. The world WANTS TO SEE SANDRA BULLOCK COVERING HER FACE IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF A CAR IN HER DRIVEWAY.
This broken world is spinning dangerously out of control. These guys know what I’m talking about:
We just hope Sandra Bullock gets back on her feet. That is all we want. That, and medicine.
I don’t know why this video of paparazzi swarming Sandra Bullock’s car (as she makes her way to her money manager’s house, naturally) makes me so sad, but it does. It’s not even the living nightmare of Sandra Bullock’s life, although that is part of it. It’s the living nightmare of all our lives. I just picture one of the paparazzo going home to his studio apartment and lying down on his bare mattress, staring up at the ceiling and feeling his chest swell with pride at another job well done. “I definitely bullied my way into someone’s personal life and got a photograph of them looking miserable,” he thinks. “I am the American Dream incarnate.” (Via Gawker.)