It’s a foul, fairy-tale less world we exist in. I reckon it all changed in the mid 1950s. Maybe not the slice of Earth we’ve carved out for ourselves but at least the way most of us perceive it. Hollywood has always been a cesspool of gay infidelities, blasphemy, and rampant moral perversion molded out of the same granite as your home town, except maybe with less hypocrisy depending on where you grew up, but during those fabricated Eisenhower years, the more ignorant and gullible among us could take stock in a contrived Camelot the studio suits cobbled together. Five decades ago, Rock Hudson was still a ladies’ man and Joan Crawford a decent and sensible human being. Not anymore. Now, Rock Hudson’s the first notable victim of the AIDS epidemic and Joan Crawford’s a miserable shrew of a mother.

You can lay some of the blame at my feet. As a celebrity gossip journalist, I greedily report every nuptial gone wrong, soaking up the matrimonial carnage and transforming the divorce proceedings into traffic, but sometimes, it all just really upsets me because I want to believe too. Love at first sight, soul mates, two people becoming one–I grew up on Disney movies. Look, I’m a realist. I know it doesn’t behoove all couples to stay together, but it would be nice if more of ‘em toughed it out for awhile.

I’m not sure whether this is an indictment of my own character or just a byproduct of zealously consuming thousands of films and books possibly at the expense of my personal life, but when people ask me to define abstract concepts, I always cite literature or movies. Paranoia? Ray Liotta freaking out over his mistress, a police helicopter, flight arrangements, and the pasta sauce in Goodfellas. Betrayal? Wendy growing up during the last chapter of Peter And Wendy. And falling in love? Reese Witherspoon making faces at Ryan Phillippe until he can’t help but laugh in Cruel Intentions. That car ride, in a snapshot, is my definition of love, and that’s why I almost cried when Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon filed for divorce.

People stay together everyday for the goddamn kids. But what about going to therapy for America’s self-esteem? For my self-esteem? Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon’s relationship was so much more than just two gorgeous people’s attempt at love. They were supposed to grow old and happy together forever, goddamnit. So were Elvis and Priscilla. And Marilyn and Joe, Nick and Jessica, Elizabeth and Richard and hundreds of other Tinseltown twosomes.

Listen: Brad Pitt is more attractive than I am. He’s also more personable, witty, and kind-hearted. May very well have a bigger dick too. So, when his relationship implodes (with Jennifer Aniston) like the fucking Hindenburg, where is a guy like me to turn? The correct answer may very well be some combination of loose women, impulsive five dollar wagers on eighty-to-one horses, and fifths of low-grade vodka, but endorsing that solution to the masses may well be tantamount to revolutionary rhetoric. There’s just no place in an advanced society for that much honesty. So, what do I do? Double down on someone else’s relationship. Re-invest what’s left of my emotional stability on Brad and Angelina. You heard it here first. In a culture which happily pisses on the sacred bonds of love, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie will blissfully make each other smile until they die. Or at least I hope so, because one of these days my credit line will expire, and I’ve got nothing left to pay the house.

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