I thought my life here in Chicago was pretty interesting. Eventful and noteworthy, even.
That was until I got a text message last night from my beautiful and hilariously talented cousin Molly who now lives in L.A., works in television writing for one of the late night comedians. She hob-nobs with stars so often that she doesn't even think the stories are worth telling anymore.
The text said this, word for word:
___
Just nearly got plowed over by paparazzi. Four choppers circling above. Hundreds of people racing on Sunset. Britney is on the loose. That girl is crazy.
___
Yeah. Commuting on the CTA doesn't compare.
And, something tells me that my trips down Michigan Avenue won't ever appear on Extra or TMZ.
Thank God. I'd hate for someone to shove a camera in my face each morning and post the evidence in magazines under the caption, "Stars are Just Like Us - they hate winter!"
Or something far worse. Like a comment about my outfit (ok, so I didn't really try this morning) or my frizzy hair (it's dry out, people!), or the fact that I'm wearing last year's shoes (the horror!), or my comings-and-goings on a Saturday morning (can't comment for fear that my mother will read this).
Yeah. I'd rather just be little 'ol unfamous me.
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